Beauty Seen is Never Lost

2011-05-16T13:53:00.000-07:00

I’d purchase a trailer – one of those with beige exteriors, yellowed by too much exposure to the sun. I’d want it used, I’d want that dried paint under its windows to look rusted and pale - too decayed to move, too absolute in its immobiliness to resemble a car.
I’d come across it, and know, that it’s here- the place I’d be able to empty those bruised leftovers that once were potential expressions perishing at the tip of my tongue, unspoken, and behind my palms, unwritten.
I imagine I’d stand there, looking at it until the shades of trees become duller and fuller, because I wouldn’t be able to decide if I’d choose to paint it royal blue or that Indigo of a night spent on the beach.
I’d decide then to smear “Cap ou pas Cap” on one back, with the grimmest of blacks, that of dice dots and “i “ ‘s in contract signatures. I’d dare it then, to show me the life that sneaked out underneath my doors one Monday afternoon while I was too busy sharpening my pencils to look for suitcases.
I’d vacuum its floor right about then, just to hear that sound of it turning into a living accommodation. I’d buy shades not curtains, and an out-of-place looking fridge I’ve spotted once and wondered what worldly sensible house would place an England-flagged item in its kitchen. But there, I’d contain them all- the odd, the misfit, and reject, animate or not. And on its contrived interior, I’d frame,
No,
I’d plaster two photographs; one of a black and white Road billboard of 1930 branch of Dunkin Doughnuts, and the other of a crowded airport gate.
Nothing more to it,
to that trailer I’d drag to the end of the world by its rusty handle. All those acres of forests I’d dreamed of touching upon lightly, and thrift stores in the middle of nowheres, that sell crisps in orange packets and sodas in retro cans.
Nothing more to it than a child, who poured milk in see-through glasses and stepped on charcoal just to glimpse an adventure, an escape, a gateway where stories were told, somewhere out there.

2011-05-07T04:33:00.001-07:00

To: World,
on a disposed paper plane

Look at him, sleeping with a hand over his ear, fending away the thousand-legged spider, and another under the pillow clutching a toothbrush, a keychain, and his Mama’s wristwatch. Behind his closed eyelids, he’s counting, not sheep, but miracles. One, he says – the way my father laughs. Two, he says- the way my bed hovers like a spacecraft in the dark. Three, he smiles – the way my sister pronounces my name.
Look at him, World,
but don’t you dare touch him.
Look at him, placing his dinosaurs all around the house – under the armchair, to shield his Mama’s friends, behind the photo frame, to look out for memory thieves. He sifts them by color, for the orange, long-necked one is the closest to his heart, and the blue winged one, can barely fly after his injury. He cries sometimes, for him, “ But why can’t you move?”, He cries sometimes, for his Mama, “ But why can’t you see?”, and he cries sometimes, for you too, world “ But why can’t I be an object?”
His Mama once told him the story of Pinocchio, the wooden toy, who strived to be a boy. “ But why, can’t I be a toy?”,
And he asks me for a story, about a toy, named Ali. And I tell him, about a universe called Ali. He laughs, and I see my reflection in his glazed eyes.
“ Tell it again,” He says,
Once upon a time, I start
But where is Ali, he interrupts
He’s in the story,
But why isn’t he THE story?
Alright,
Once upon an Ali, I start again
And he laughs, and the laughter never dies down in his throat, and he laughs some more.
In Ali, there lived the most absurd of creatures,
And he sits properly again, and his hands are in his lap, and his smile grows some more.
There was the three-eyed monster,
There was the ball of fur,
There was the crocodile who speak songs.
Because in Ali, there lived the most absurd of creatures!
He shrieks out loud,
And the blue winged dinosaur can fly again!
In Ali, everything flies. I tell him, and he gasps.

Look at him, world, but don’t you dare touch him. Those tiny hands that know not how to build or maim, but how to extract life for life, would one day, be the ultimate change you’d been doomed to neglect.
So, world, take me,
Take all my dreams, memories, and well-built notions,
But world,
Don’t you ever dare, touch him

Sincerely yours,

2011-05-01T01:46:00.000-07:00

“20 Authors under 40” – profile photos depicting the illustrations of those who inked it down, somewhere between their medical school training and insurance jobs. My mind scans in detail - that high collared shirt, that African American afro, that copper necklace.
Writers, I know them – there’s depth in every facet, there’s meaning in purchase choices, there’s a stretch of possibility, there’s a story, there’s a plot right there. There are words in a salesman’s vest, there are words in Fire alarms and cinema tickets, there are words in the mundane; carpools, laundry rooms, and clinics .I turn the page to the snippets of their interviews.

Where were you born? Washinton D.C
Where do you live now? San Francisco
Where were you born? Lima, Peru
Where do you live now? Oakland, California
Where were you born? Nigeria
Where do you live now? Columbia

In precision, I see them. Moving large pieces of furniture in their new apartments, washing dishes after their dozen takeout orders ran out, and stacking plastic bags into corners.
I see them, walking unto life as if on a straight line, a foreign beginning to an unprecedented end. And I see their words- definite, and new; emerging from inexplicable depths shadowing that straight line they walked on.
One life- and they’ve lived.
One life, and they’ve seen its heights when they waited alone in airports, and skimmed through newspapers with enlarged-metaphors for a name, only writers would scoff at; “ The sun” ,“ The spotlight”, and “ The Voice”.
One life, and they’ve had sharpened pencils everywhere, and they wrote as the neighbor told them about somebody else’s tragedy; and they wrote as they’ve heard ambulances on distant nights, and they wrote as they dropped orange peels from the window, and they wrote as they stepped on sewage systems, and they wrote while it rained, and they wrote some more.

And I envy them some more.
One life, and I walk upon circles.
One life, and I stretch experiences until they break on the rims.
One life, and the potential of words die down inside of me.
One life, and the only certainty I know, is how much I don’t.

2011-04-07T14:59:00.001-07:00

If it was as simple as a clean slate, as flat as an expandable storage box- if this world was as detachable as Lego pieces and as reproductive as Russian dolls;
it’d be easy to slice that part of it I’ve always envisioned to own, and carve a new way through. It’d be just easy, to allow everything outside that slice to self-destruct – every nation with it’s red-taped borders, every alley, every government, every student with a too-void backpack and a too-stuffed lunchbox, every grocery store, every street wiped clean off ‘vandalism’, every teacher with a too straight-lined planbook and a too-relevant lesson, every musician with a too-hollow guitar case, every gift shop, every emergency room, every furniture shop with too-little furniture, every resort, every library gathering dust, and just about everything, as much as the word ‘everything’ is capable of bearing.
Yes, I’d let it all saturate itself into non-existence for then, with my own slice intact, I will no longer care.
In that slice of mine though, their ‘nothing’ would be the core of it all; that insanity they ridiculed would be the coastline of my self-proclaimed nation; their too-shabby artists would be its guards, and their too-cynical, too-curious, too-questioning, paranoid youth would be it’s population of 5000. I’d foresee to it all.
For I know someone, who’d be the Head of Education. Someone who’d create portable Schools, with students boarding trains and Fairies, instead of sitting behind scratched-off wooden desks, 1st graders with their copies of “Joody Moody” clutched protectively under their arms, and 5th graders reciting Lorca and writing lines of Darwish’s final words at the back of their hands instead of patriotic anthems and face-painted flags. I know, she’d foresee to all of that. I know, her students, wouldn’t fathom the chemical reactions of a formula but would know the language of despair in Monet’s paintings, and the undeniable tragedy behind Yanni’s compositions. They’d sleep at night with legends under their beds, and stars crashing down on them, too-few to collect, too-many to wish upon. They’d know, her students, they’d know God, they’d know him so well, and would touch upon him, every time they’d listen to her speak.

I also know someone, who’d be the Head of it’s law; Someone who’d build courts with thresholds made of thin steel instead of Golden Gargoyles, and hire lawyers with Comic-stripped ties, neon-colored socks, and opening arguments rimmed with shreds of door-to-door human interaction rather than prospects of bold first page newspaper titles. Someone who’d build prisons with book-bricked walls and issue personal hand-written verdicts; someone whose law would enable street artists and add new color palettes to their buckets. I know she’d foresee to it all; to see citizens with hopscotch-traces beneath their shoes and fathers impersonating Columbus down the streets. I know she cradles reason with one arm, and that utter raw humanity one weeps in the other; justice, would be that man by the door humming “ Somewhere over the rainbow”, justice would be that little boy writing a riddle for a stranger in the subway, justice would be that woman reading “ Kafka on the shore” next to her stroller. Justice would be, and would for centuries that come.

I also know someone who’d be the Head of it’s politics ; Someone who’d choose to invert meaning, into a new form of creation where politics, wouldn’t be in the hand of that tight-suited politician at the end of the mahogany table ,but in the firm grip of that long-haired musician, who wears a Morrissey T-shirt and vows to bring Kurt Kobain back to life. He’d be her politics; yes, he’d be that authority to bring forth foreign policies and dissect national securities, he’d be that person with ink-smudged thumbnails of nights spent writing lyrics and that person who stands on high podiums and shrieks “ liberty” and “ independence”. She’d know how to rewrite that notion of politics, she’d know how to jumble letters, and make it sound like that delicate piece of music she allows herself to touch every now and then – the voice of a human soul, that piano, that violin, that cello, that hard-rock drum, that politics of hers.

Jonathan Safran Foer once wrote, “If there is no love in the world, we will make a new world, and we will give it heavy walls, and we will furnish it with soft red interiors, from the inside out, and give it a knocker that resonates like a diamond falling to a jeweler's felt so that we should never hear it”

2011-03-24T16:42:00.000-07:00

At times, I find myself in Munich,
one summer two years back.
In that apartment we lodged in; located at the far end on the last floor of the building. The ceiling was slightly low - an inverted roof that shaped the space underneath.
The kitchen was in between the rooms- a door that takes you into a more proportioned area than what first met the eye.
At night, I’d lie in bed, vigil, unaccustomed to Insomnia in a barren, white-walled room; No, it wasn’t that familiar Insomnia which usually hauls itself on my chest as the clock pass the realms of 00:00. It was distinct – for instead of the usual rhythm of my dysfunctional Air conditioner, it’s a draft of air – coming from an old-fashioned portable fan , circling the room in a full-round before it lands back on my face; and those bedsheets- their ends too crisp, their surfaces too smooth, like that creased midpoint of a finger ; wrinkling sharply as you lay your hands straight, and evening out like a bland slate as you bend it.
But then, something happens as dawn settles in , through that rectangular window in the kitchen. There’s this dim blueness, this sifted light, that laces everything it touches – the half-opened cereal box at the corner appears grand all of a sudden.
I remember I’d get out of bed, and to the kitchen. Push that wooden chair close to the window, with my copy of Jodi Picoult’s “ Second Glance” at the time, and read about ghost hunts and Native americans until my bitten fingertips were numb. I’d stop at times and look at the identical chimneys and brown roofs outside, oblivious to the city under the bricks.I remember wondering if they were ever red, and if war, and human terror dismantled their color hues during the sullen Nazi era.
In those confined few minutes, between daylight and the recoil of night – In that solitude, and with that unusual and foreign scenery right in front of me, I felt invincible.
I imagined I lived alone,
I imagined that those items in the Kitchen were solely my choices, that Milk carton in the fridge was for the coffee I’d make every morning, and that table was the place where I laid open newspaper drafts and circled mistakes with a ballpoint pen. I remember, the scenarios I loved to weave, the details I added, and how sudden thuds from the other rooms, dismantled everything as quick as I perfected it.

Today,
Was a March –
A spring day that brought me into existence once,
And, I made a wish,
To have a Munich Dawn, every now, and then.

2011-03-17T14:31:00.000-07:00

These small, few certainties had built a fort around me for the past five years. That soft scent of stale cigarettes and aggressively-washed carpets, which could only be my house; the strange precision in which my name is called, each syllable at a time ,shadowed with a tone of finality; and that sense of selective solitude I’ve created despite it all.
There’s that thick drape I’ve drawn right in front of me; one that walks miles before I do,
Behind it, I’m that girl who stood on the 18th of July, under the rain,
in a country that never knew my initials, nor the weight of the constantly-alternating contradictions I’ve held inside. I’m that girl, that one lone girl, standing, with a soaked Pizza box, a torn plastic bag bearing vintage-covered classics, awaiting the arrival of a transportation bus. I’m that girl, right there, with nothing behind that frail shoulder of mine but strangers slightly urging me back and forth, a pale intensity to every entity I’ve known, a lightness of being.
Behind it, I’m that girl who construct pinnacles of lonesome midnights, a clock of wistful 11’s upturned, and yet no wishes see the peak of light. I’m that girl who listens to tracks of angst and tragic ends, on instruments that’d dissolve under my touch, their transparency, an obstruction to any reason or logic I’ve held dear.
There’s pain.
And an irretraceable ache,
And a fall from a once-cushioned grace.
And an open-ended question : "Why?"

2011-03-04T16:48:00.000-08:00

Take it all.
My tipped-to-the-side bookcase – break it down to irrevocable lumps of wood.
Step on it if you must; touch the shards you’ve brought down with that steel hammer of yours.
And those books of mine- dog-eared, frayed, with their laden sheets and penciled-in thoughts- Burn them out, those pages, rip them to the core,those salty tears, those fingerprints, those eye lashes clinging on just about, those days enclosed firmly inside – hotel rooms with white linen sheets withholding runaway schemes, bus journeys, waiting areas and airport queues– burn them, burn it all.
It won’t be an offense, not a felony, nor a crime; those fingers typing official documents with color-coordinated logos , filing city applications, and sending out already-planned requests; they won’t be pointing at you, they won’t see a sacrilege, they won’t know the severity of that smoldering scent of burnt literature and individuals.
Go on then, burn it all with ease; take your shoes off and dance on its ashes. Feel it under the sole of your feet. It wouldn’t matter. There are no mahogany tables, no courts, no stern voices questioning your motives, no justifications, no consequences that’d ripple your existence as you know it, no threats of demolishment, no conscience that’d drag the admission out of you, no substance that’d anchor you down to the ground nor the exact contrast that’d defy gravity and lift you up a bit. There’s just, No Thing. With capitalized emphasis.
So there you go, that’s my hand handing it all to you,
An that’s my soul- under your soleless feet.

2011-02-17T18:40:00.000-08:00

Look at you, cradling that blue notebook like a porcelain doll; writing a story about a boy named ‘ Rami’ .
Look at you, measuring the widths of the page with a metal ruler and crossing the T’s, an end to an end.
You know you’ve never read a book with letters spiraling downwards and full stops falling off margins ;. So you sit on your elbows, knitting your eyebrows for hours, making sure Rami’s mother had a capitalized first-letter to her name, and his house, had a triangular red-bricked roof.
And you run, after each page ; my god you run with all your might ;
by the stairs, by the windows, by every discarded toy on the carpet ;
to grasp your dad’s arms and nudge him to see Rami’s smile as he buys his ticket to the moon ; to lay those well-crafted pages on his lap and pinpoint to the vase in the background, to trace the details you’ve prided yourself in,
Your heart is swelling, your heart is a helium balloon, your heart is that contained void in a closed-lid paint bucket; your heart is that dribble of a new basketball.
Your fragile little heart,
And your dad grins,
And he sits with his arms crossed;
And he tells you, with eyes that could only speak in steady volumes never in simple words
“ One day, the world would shudder at your touch, one day, you’d stand and know it all, and one day, every page of every book, would be watermarked by your intials”
And you,
Little fragile-hearted girl,
Believed,
Because you knew, there isnt a world but this – and it’s a just one.

Look at you,
Covering your eyes with the back of your hands; as the couple on screen kiss. You lower your head, willing time to tremble forth; the script to move along from that scene; it’s pitch dark behind your firmly shut eyes; it’s daunting to fear the loss of that grace they instilled in you ; it’s blasphemous, it’s the day of doom and those bones of yours would soon be igniting the core of hell.
You open your eyes, and you breathe ; that cold air of safety from within, the story is still intact without the kiss, it’s only here and there, that detail falters , but it’s alright ; you’re capable of justifying it all – Humanity sans kisses is the ultimate utopia.
Because you,
little fragile-hearted girl,
Believe,
Because you knew, there isnt a world but this – and it’s a just one.

Look at you,
Emptying your pencil case, searching for the thickest ink. Trying to scribble over that illustration at the bottom of the page ; it’s a six-angled star, gaping at you with that immorality and evilness they’ve warned you against ; you squint to shape it out, but you know it’s somewhere here, you’ve been taught to find it’s corners on architecture, t-shirts, mugs, blankets, ceramic patterns, and you can’t ‘unlearn’ such criticality. You just can’t. So you scribble, and scribble some more. And turn the page over; look at your hands, and hope that what you’ve heard them call ‘Judaism’ isn’t contagious. But it’s alright, because your Science page had been cleansed now, and that conscience of yours is polished. And words such as Zionism, Holocaust, Religion with an ‘S’ at the end; are merely concepts of someone else’s dictionary.
Because you fragile-hearted girl,
Believe,
Because you knew, there isn’t a world but this – and it’s a just one.

Look at you, now.
A fool,
weeping for a world,
that was never yours.

2011-02-12T13:22:00.000-08:00

I’d like you to know it’s mine – that Quill & Parchment Bookstore,

I’d like to imagine you coming upon it:
Walking down that damp street; lifting your gaze slowly to the corner, and finding yourself touching your glistening veins in an unconscious attempt to test reality.
In your eyes, I’d verify its existence; that picturesque passion I’ve poured into this creation; that tiny sharp-edged scrap of my heart ; and a thousand ghastly days turned inside out.
It’s exterior is Aqua-blue. That distinct shade of late January; That shade of disparities: hostility, fragility, stillness, and chaos all at once; that shade of ripe fruit bowls and embroideries found in cribs, nurseries, and vintage jewelry boxes.
Yes, it’s that Aqua- blue. The one that comes to mind when I remember Tom Sawyer’s raft or Kindergarten lunchboxes. It’s the shade that streaks over childhood; over days spent using waterpaint on used-newspapers and drinking Horlex out of Lipton complimentary mugs.
.
The rims of the store are Golden, just here and there; a pale gold that refuses to shimmer but remains resolute all the same. It outlines the edges of those nine small, well-proportioned squared windows at the center of the door. It also refines those cursive ends that form “Quill & Parchment” on the high left. The words glide; the words shatter; the words break down again and again.

The window; an octagonal corner, branching itself outside, forming a peach seating area from within. Just like Boo Radley’s gift-bearing tree in “ To Kill a mocking bird”, the side door is carved with empty cubicles, where poetry and paper swans are left every now and then.

I like to imagine you, walking inside:

You look at the carpet, and remember how it feels to step on something that yields beneath you, you remember how the insignificant details, can make you feel alive again. You stand by the door; your heart tries to take it all, and you whisper “ A legacy, “. You look at the shelves, and you extend your hands, stroking one book after the other, because you know, they wept for you sometimes. You know of the ache that streams down their pages, and you know they hold my lonesome soul amidst their typewritten texts.
You look at the walls, and you know they’d never know the obsoleteness of unliving things. Frames upon frames of raw entities scraped off my lifetime, Van Gogh’s starry night upon Edinburgh’s skyline, upon E.E Cummings words upon Joss Weldon’s fictional creations.

I like to imagine you, placing your palm on one of the dangling single light bulbs, thinking of the days I vowed to bring back their worth without camouflaging them with feathers and crystals. You smile as your ears fall upon the instrumental melody of the Beatle’s “ Yesterday”, and you wonder why, I chose piano over violin; and you wonder if time is capable of changing vowels and tendencies; and you wonder if I still miss you.
And what came together in my head, will then fall apart.

2011-01-22T18:18:00.000-08:00

My little sister; she had a too-featureless scrapbook for an 8 years old– one of those with glazed pages that smelled like newly-bought school textbooks and fresh-off-the-stand magazines . She’d stretch its empty pages out on her Dora-imprinted blanket and place her little palms on the surface. “It’s too heavy”, she’d claim, “ I always run out of pages,” ; and the pages knew how to hold the pretense of containing it all ; a twist of her reflection, her always color-coordinated glasses, and that epic toothless grin.
Every time she’s asked about it’s contents, she’d circle her fingers around the borders, and say with utmost confidence,“ But don’t you see it? It’s where I keep them all; the kisses, the hugs, and the ‘well-done’ pats,” She’d take you then back to page one, and guide you all the way to the back cover ; million of off-to-school morning kisses, thousands of I-love-yous crowding unseen margins, and a whole world of smiles : her oldest brother tying her shoes, her dad trying to unscrew her nailpolish bottle, her 2nd grade teacher giving her the largest performance star; she’d take you through them all, until you’re left breathless,
That’s her scrapbook,
Mine, however, had no pages – for I wore it around my neck like a string of impossibly-knotted beads – strung together with such sacredness, such delicacy-that without it, one would easily wilt to the grave.
It’s made of that 8 year old girl, and of them-

Of that 12 year old boy- with his Pikacho Pijama pants and dream-cake cravings- how he chases that lonesome rabbit out of its hole, towards the carrot crumbs; how he sits infront of the barbeque fire with hands copying his English Homework and eyes watching his roasting marshmallows; how he flips on that unguarded trampoline with mischief and undoubted expertise; how he runs with all his might with someone’s gift safely tugged under his arms; how he giggles while reading the latest copy of “ Wimpy Kid”; how his heart is wrapped with an unfound tenderness, how he brings life, to life.

Of those random-outing days with my best friend – with car-filled conversations amidst crumpled cd covers, heavy scents of broken perfume bottles, and university booklets – how we tread topics like equestrians on the run, how we mount to utter joy, fall to complete devastation, and then mount again ; how we outline café visits and embrace papercups; how we condemn trivialities over plates of salted-calamari and mozerella salad ; how we drown in detail; how we drown in music, how we drown in ‘now’, ‘then’, and ‘because’.

Of that trail of memory I leave between the pages of my books – with lines; strands of them, emptying that well of nostalgic indentation within me; how hollow it makes me feel; how beautifully it carves the images of those I’ve grieved, of those who’s loss I’ve never learnt to quell; how it brings forth those long summer days with premium vividness, how it brings forth sidewalk laughter and rainy afternoons.

All of it; all of them- this sacred scrapbook, this personal rosemary beads of mine- had dismantled my nights and left me weeping in the wreckage- this fragileness of it all, this proximity that lies in the slash of Everything/Nothing, takes my breath away so vigorously; I can’t lose sight of it anymore. Not for a moment, No.

2011-01-06T13:50:00.001-08:00

I wonder: if we peeled off this stain-smudged blanket and blue swollen walls– if we shook these pillows out of they’re stupor, would they flood the room with an abundance of intricately-fabricated dreams? Would that massive framed Manhattan Bridge photograph ever cease to gape at us with malice and softens instead, at our touch?
One day- we’d wake up to find ourselves under a glass dome that has hinges to it’s sides; we’d find ourselves amidst heaving typewriters, crumpled news clippings, jammed calendars, suitcases and stacks of well-written books. That quote-bearing table would upend itself and we’d carry its scribbled words under our skin.
Promises of a day like this; and million others we left in this room.

2011-01-03T05:53:00.000-08:00

To Fajer – with apostrophies, parenthesis, and every sort of emphasis <3

I keep thinking about that protagonist I want to pen out in my futurely-written novel: I try to sew it’s parts together with open eyes and pores; stitch each fiber with a certain preciseness that only an artist with tragedy at his core could possess. I wanted a character; that refracted double-edged intelligence from humanity and spitted out kaleidoscopic beauty into existence; just like light through a prism.
I sifted through the collection I’ve soaked up over the years; characters that inked themselves on my skin, my brain cells, and all over my being.

One of them was Olivia Duhnam, the protagonist of the Sci-fiction series ‘Fringe’. I’d like my character to have her eyes; her daunting eyes that depict a raw unceasing cacophony of memory and notion; the inconceivable cruelty of human suffering that laces everything with sadness; and the intense desire to exorcise it all.

Then there was Zooey Glass, a member of the glass Family, created by the literary phenomena, J.D Salingar. I’d like my character to have his sentimentality and discernment; his cynical perceptions that defiantly shreds human behavior into pieces only he can digest; tiny little tragic truths.

And Jason Gideon, the lead of the fictional BAU team in the criminology series “ Criminal minds”. I’d like my character to have his outlet of ideas; his ability to gather the totality of being alive; being consciously aware of one’s own insignificance in this blob of mystery; and his heartbreaking tendency to behold the rotten parts of the universe and trace out their tenderness.

Rudy Steiner, that lemon-haired German boy in Markus Zusak’s novel “ The book thief”. I’d like my character to have his heart. His beautifully-crafted heart; shelled with a kind of fabric that’s only existent within those who are too sensitive to everything tangible; who feel too deeply; and who’s short life thickens every time someone’s soul is touched by them.

But amongst all, I want my character to be like you.
No,
to simply be- you- .
Your ink is the boldest, for it isn’t tattooed, it’s blood and bones- the fluid that flows within me, the fuel, and the disparity that keeps the term – leaving-, a merely italicized term.
You know, how unbearable it is to feel the burden of living too powerfully; to house within you a complexity of emotions that varies from extreme melancholia to wonderfulness to confusion to brilliance, and to radiate all that through flesh, knowledge music, and ideas. Or at least try to, every single day of our lives.
And by that – you forced me to reconfigure this world as a whole and live it on different terms. The possibilities that stemmed from the newly confounded universe rendered us both jubilant and hopeless at the same time; and just like that; we became tangled, somewhere only we can access ; a place only we can define.
That’s why, my protagonist,
is you
for I can’t possibly write something more True and vivid than that.

2010-12-25T10:11:00.000-08:00

Tribute to My Uncle Eissa, the epitome of life and living.

He was that kind of boy; with dog-eared schoolbooks and neatly folded clothes. His curly hair was combed precisely at each end, and his wide eyes were always wandering. They say he was the most sophisticated of them all in appearance; buttons buttoned and shirts always tucked in.
But he was also that kind of boy; with stolen marbles in his pockets and cons up his sleeves. He knew every fallen stone in the neighborhood, every hiding corner, every wounded animal. He knew which gum wrappers held the ‘winning’ photos they’ve all collected at the time, and which ones were merely candy delights. He knew of traps, of knotted ropes around handles, and of buried coin jars. He was that kind of boy; with a raging fire within him that’s never out.

He was that kind of man who stacked pale stamps and faded photographs; who loved to record every distinctive sound, moment, joke, anecdote, or conversation, in that leather journal he kept so close. He was that kind of man; who would start a fire, just to watch the red flames engulf the blue within them, and to hear that hypnotizing crackling sound of the woods crumbling.
He was that kind of man; with condensed dreams tucked under his arms and a million tomorrows beneath them all. He knew how to weave aviation strategies without looking at a plane; and the beauty of unraveling worlds within worlds undersea. He knew the worth of self-fulfillment that shadows a risk of following an intense passion. He knew it all, and died knowing it.

He was that kind of father; who scrapped off words from every surface, and redistributed them as stories to his five children. He knew how to heal a wounded knee with mockery and laughter; and how to turn mundane trips and gatherings into endless theatrical plays. He was that kind of father; who wrapped values within parodies and instilled morals with an easing sense of humor. That kind of father, who gave everything; just to preserve every ounce of childhood, innocence, and life at every corner of the house.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

And so he goes,
another beautiful soul;
And so does that still world I’ve once believed I gripped; falling deep into an abyss I no longer see;
my loved ones, and their crooked smiles,
my loved ones, and their ridiculous sense of being
my loved ones, and their snippets of comfort,

From here on, in the clinging stench of death, and as the last breaths of those I’ve held so dear had ascended to the circus of the skies, I knew that these things I know for sure, would no longer be, and everything that we’ve built, breathed, and loved, would crumble. This ceaseless suffering year after year, would eventually fold everyone it touches like a choking weed. And, how after this, would one dare to love again?

2010-12-02T17:49:00.000-08:00

Dedicated to those who know the sound of “ Clocks” by “ The Black Pipers” with their eyes closed.

Some days never die .
they glaze our existence like a scented-phantom, trailing behind us wherever we step.
Those July days:
They’re here and there, at the core of every facet that make up my Todays.

At the bottom of my Navy converse.
We took a walk in that eerie forest,. Twigs, crisped leaves, misplaced belongings, branches tied with torn fabrics and one horrific garden. “A lost soul”, one of us said, “A psychotic lunatic, said the other, “ or perhaps, a creative artist.” Half-buried gnomes outlined it’s entrance, broken-winged butterflies and hanging garments, toys and statues marked every wooden pillar of the fence and marbles found their way around our feet. Something, somewhere, at the threshold, rendered us immobile. “ Don’t you realize, that we try to create meaning, when there isn’t any? Why is it, we believe, there is a story for everything?”

On that white luggage tag: " 123”.
They warned us, “ never leave the fire exit door open” ; for intruders could be lurking around in every corner, and history had proved that dead bodies could be hidden in trees for days. But Room “123” is right above “ 219”, and efficiency downsizes fear of theoretic stories we’ve heard. We grabbed our blankets and pillows, tiptoed our way to that red door we became accustomed to, and held our breath as we went downstairs to that sleepover we promised. And if I could break it down, those snippets would be the loudest, “ How have I never noticed, how large your toes are?”,
“ I had a dream, about a Tree”, and
“ That Alarm ringtone, is deathly”

And they’re there, in that gold-rimmed Ray Ban shades
“ Ocean Terminal”, she said, “ That’s where we’re headed tomorrow, I have a feeling, it’s a magical place”. And on we went on that sunny day, from one bus stop, to another, to another, from moderately normal-sized buses, to two-leveled ones until we finally reached, that salt-scented town; they called “ The Ocean Terminal”. “ Well, im slightly disappointed,” she said, as we stood in a bland mall, that held no promises. But we found our ways, in between the stops, to a Pizza Hut, right in the middle of a bar-infested area. And those conversations we exchanged over a Blue-cheese pizza, were the beating heart of that infinite day.
“ Don’t leave a tip, keep it for the needy”,
“Don’t tell me you expect me to drink your coke after this lunch we had?” and
“ I can’t believe we entered without waiting to be seated.”
But I know, it wasn’t the words; it was them.

And they’re there, tracing my purple Ipod.
At the back of the bus, we sat. “ Let’s play 20 questions,”, ,. From start to an end, and an end to a start, we found ourselves, unraveling political views and weaving worldly arguments, “ Jamal Abdul Naser you say? I would agree if he didn’t use the rich to fulfill the needs of the poor!” , “ And what about those Turkish Policies? Where do you stand on that? Public imagery versus true intent? “
“ I don’t think so!”
And the world slept, while we dissected it.

Some days, never die.

2010-11-09T00:30:00.000-08:00

It’s always the same terrifying dream – a projection of a future that presses itself against my consciousness, leaving nothing but the residue of what once resembled life.
It’s a madhouse, a white in white madhouse that holds no one but those who fell off the grid somewhere. I can’t move around because everything in existence is stifled there; laughter that failed to escape its realm and tears rimming eyes like withering organs. Their voices are crushed questions; ones the world held no answer to, and their bodies are stories of an overturned subconscious. I wonder if the horror of human ignorance had anchored their limbs to the ground, or perhaps it was the weight of knowledge, the burden of –knowing-, that emptied them of the vital promise that enabled humans to breathe: the prospect of tomorrow, the possibility of meaning. They’re immobile for they no longer wear their ideals on their heads like woolen hats; they exhausted them in the process of trying to shake the world out of its stupor. And that’s when they were deemed unfit for it; that’s when they disintegrated into fragments which could’ve fueled the earth but perished instead.
It's always the same terrifying thought - is ignorance bliss?

2010-10-28T02:15:00.000-07:00

They’re all over your wardrobe doors; sketches and portraits that were scraped off your skin. I look at them, tucking away a shiver that ran through my veins. Your edges are no longer smooth strikes of a sharpened pencil; they're smears of dark matter.
" Why , is it, do you choose to sketch misery? Why is it, do you choose void, and not that liveliness I know you possess?”
You look right back at me, with a smile that speaks of childhood afternoon quests and watermelon seeds contests. “ We’re hollow, and you know it. Do you see it too, when you close your eyelids? That shapeless memory, of midnight shrieks and pains? Of endless heaves and agonies? Can you, for a second forget, that we sat there, watching a soul break down into so many shards, until there was nothing else but nothingness itself for death to claim?”.
And I thought you knew how to wrap your heart up in paper-bubbles, to guard it from days that we chose to tie a knot around. But there you are , a broken-hearted man, sketching an ache only you knew of, while living life as if it was one of the funniest jokes you’d ever heard of.

2010-10-11T12:21:00.000-07:00

She held on to the roll of ribbons she’d been handed. “ Cut them into pieces, cross-tie them, and show your support for the October cause”. After all, she was that house precisely built with beautiful, patterned deck cards; that pale streamer with smeared grey letters jamming the window, and that featureless Toy solider discarded behind the fridge. They had feet to stand on; she’d been knocked over one day, and went on with loose limbs and organs; waiting for the world to put her back together.
She took the ribbon roll and dragged it swiftly behind her to that corner where a a dream-looking autistic child sat hunched over a piece of paper, folding it and refolding, as if time had turned into a short-spanned loop. A glass shell of a boy, a nonexistent shadow, a condensed bundle of non-expressed lives within lives. They tampered with the universe, and touched every core with their feet soles, but who knows of you little boy? She tied the ribbon smoothly on his wrist, and continued her way with what’s left of it. To a street corner where a young woman is unraveling the sky with her hands, trying to locate stars, or maybe just a star. Her bloodied finger tips barely reached; her battered abused body fragilely breathed,; and her insides, were turned, once upon a dreadful night, into frozen ghosts. She pulled out the ribbon roll, and turned it into a beautiful bow, and pinned it softly on the young woman’s hair. She moved along to that little boy, whose lightening sneakers weren’t fast enough. She ran behind him as he ran with an extended hand trying to grab the tips of his mother’s outline. But the outline wants to inhale a life, and a life, doesn’t include, little boys with brittle hearts and limbs. She embraces the little boy, touching his nose and eyes, tracing invisible seams of lost childhoods and psychopathic tomorrows. She pinned the ribbon on his front pocket next to a threaded shark. She was tired, and the stops had no finish line. She knew that, and she knew that her roll of ribbons was now a mere carton that cracked under her firm hold.
To human kind, she gifted them all.
Pink ribbons would cure Cancer, when sparrows wouldn’t fall off trees because the branches were taped together; and when human hands wouldn’t scratch of veined-surfaces and mistake it for a loving touch.

2010-09-19T18:44:00.000-07:00

I know,
that I wont ever come across such a place in this world- in here, where things exist with reason, where things are bricks upon bricks of science and logic, where things materialize merely based on the dependence of being real. It’s no place for us to meet, it’s no place for you to be – not here, no.
But if there was such a place, where miracles swift by like morning birds; where time is a thread we weave into sweaters and quilts; where dreams become people, and people are a palette of colors- If there was such a place, somewhere on the fringes of this life we stand on, I’d meet you there.
But then again, what words would I give you after all this time?
Maybe, I’d tell you about that page I memorized from “The perks of being a wallflower”; and how lines slipped off the paper and became phantoms; ones that still hover somewhere inside of me. Yes, I’d tell you about it. Maybe, I’d tell you about that Eid day, where for a single,magical,infinite moment, we were all intertwined; as if that bukhoor-scented living room, that laughter resonating from Grandma’s sorrowful soul, and that clinking sound of bicycle bells coming from outdoors, had made everything around us; absolutely weightless. Yes, I’d tell you about it. Maybe, I’d tell you about your brother, about the moment he became somebody’s someone; somebody’s everything; and how his weary eyes, sparked with unshed tears, when he heard the words “ You’ve got a son”. Yes, I’d tell you about it. Maybe, I’d tell you about that song I accidently heard on the radio that day, and how it’s unusual lyrics drifted around me for days; leaving me breathless, only to discover in the end, that I had simply misheard it. Yes, I’d tell you about that. Maybe, I’d tell you about that day, when I boarded a plane alone, with a head filled with somewhere and a heart swollen with tiny specks of achievement. Yes, I’d tell you about it. Maybe I’d tell you about my other family, and how they’re made of ever lasting star-matter; glistening eternally over me, holding my seams together. Yes, I’d tell you about them.
And Maybe, I’d tell you about tears, about vanilla-scented fabrics, beauty salons, frilly-handwritings, furniture stores, newborns tucked in strollers, heels, money jars, branded handbags, life-sized paintings, nachos left on cinema seats, musicals, desserts, songs, key chains, belgian chocolate, morning buffets, animated screensavers, pink hallways, and an endless string of days. I’d tell you about it all. Yes.
And maybe, I’d tell you nothing at all.
I’d just touch your face. Trace it with my fingertips.
Put my ears against your chest; listen to that heart of yours; beat again.
Just that.
Only that.
Once more.
Yes, just that.

2010-09-14T14:12:00.001-07:00

I’m lying at the bottom. Skin to tiles, tiles to skin. My palms pushing against the ground underneath, unsure of what’s holding what. Somewhere out there, there’s a life. If only I could be wave of sound;
a trail of smoke ;
anything dissipating,
anything that could take me through.
Take me back, to it.
To that cloudy morning; walking to the bakery in town; the sky shedding it’s rain upon us. No invisible strings pulling us back, no hands tightening our wrists. Just us, our umbrellas, and a beautiful day waiting ahead.
To that mystical afternoon; Standing on the upper deck of that boat, mist brushing our cheeks, like fallen wishes. Entangled, we were; amongst myths and legends, starring deep into the abyss of Loch Ness.
To that sunny day; sitting on those steel benches, looking down on the endless series of stairs and the outline of a faraway city. Tracing clouds, and wondering how they could look like wandering turtles and floating dragons at the same time.
To that evening in the highlands; tiptoeing on sidewalks, kicking pinecones along the way; laughter engulfing us like a magical halo. Taking away the weight of the world that was once lazed on our shoulders.
To the million lives we lived, in a span of a month ; I could call a lifetime.

2010-09-07T19:33:00.000-07:00

The girl with the lopsided smirk- I remember her. Always dressed in a traditional Jalabya; her dark black hair tied in a high ponytail. She was my closest mate at that intensive-long, excruciating summer school we attended in the British Council. She’d pull her chair right beside me in class and sit on the edge; as close as possible, her workbook almost overlapping mine. She’d watch me scribble letters on my workbook, and try to distract me with the glittery stickers encircling her page. Odd, the things that find their place around my memory now. Her name, I cannot recall, but I can almost sketch that smirk of hers, and the prominent mole above her lips. I don’t remember what school she came from, but I know with foreign intensity how much she idolized her older brother. And, most of all, I remember how she taught me the art of stealing books from the ‘walking library’.
“ It’s Okay,” ,she’d say “ They want us to read them anyway,”.
And I bulged, and I believed, and I stole.

The concerned High school English teacher- I remember her. Walking into class, starting her lesson by asking for our daily journals. Her voice stern; laced with expectations and genuine concern. Always, trying to keep everything intact, always trying to peel off that cavernous immaturity which plagued us at the time, Always trying to extract that single quality that outlined each one of our characters, making them distinguishable, in hopes of envisioning a change in the future. Her grammar lessons had evaporated, but her “ How is everyone doing this morning?” still rings in my head. I cannot remember her ways of teaching, but I recall her reply to every work I submitted, always repeating “ One day, I’ll hear your name somewhere, and it’ll be somewhere big”.

The boy next door – I remember him. With his light brown hair, round face, raspy voice and stuttered speech. How he loved to play ‘pretend’. He’d be the fish, I’d be the fisher, he’d be the eagle, I’d be the snake, he’d be the judge, I’d be the criminal. I don’t remember when he moved or where he moved; yet I recall his absurd obsession with Ketchup. I don’t remember how many siblings he had, but I remember vividly how he hid a knife in his pocket one afternoon and taunted me with it.

The black-haired girl of the driving school- I remember her. With headphones in her ears, and grey eyes wandering about. She had a detached aura about her, which seemed odd in a driving-test waiting room. I don’t remember if she had an accent, but I recall our conversation about “ Sophie’s Choice” with haunting accuracy. I don’t remember if she passed the test or not , but I know of her fascination with Orchestras and how music could move her to tears. I don’t remember what she was wearing, but I remember the peace sign charm dangling off her bracelet.

Somewhere, along the line, they subtly come into your life ; molding some parts of it, reshaping some future outcomes, giving away shards and pieces of themselves here and there ; a word,, half a lifetime, a tug at a heart, a moment, a memory. And as swiftly as they came, they leave. And Somehow, you become; because of them.

2010-07-23T10:51:00.000-07:00

Strangers. That’s what we were. Outlines, figures, passer bys maybe, with no thread in between. We arrived in a foreign land, with our luggage only, and a head filled with scraps- expectations, fear, excitement, and intimidation. No thread in between.
Then came the ceildah, the dance night; clacks of shoes on wooden floors, music melodies dragging us right into the core of that foreign land we just embarked on.
We met that night; we conversed, sugar-coated words were passed between us; few; yet, they marked the beginning;
somewhere along that night, a thread, was tied.
I was drawn.
They were those kind of people who were overwhelmed by existence, by beauty, by idea by thought and memory; those whose life sometimes became too much because they couldn’t bear to accept reality as it was. They’d doubt, they’d question, and they’d weep for it all.
In castles and palaces, they’d slow their pace, and listen intently- to every wall, every statue, every canvas- to the curves in the doorknob, the engravings on the fireplace, and the words embedded in between. In their wake, everything, everything, became impeccable.
They’d talk literature – of words they’ve swallowed once upon a time, of plays they’d marveled on, of characters, of places, of scents and textures lost in time. They’d disagree, they’d reach out and hand ideas, they’d flip them, mold them, and dwell upon them for a while.
They’d talk politics – of nations they’ve mapped, of presidents, of policies, of civilizations, and empires. They’d tuck the globe under their arms and wander with it.
They’d talk society- of flaws they’d wish to scrape off, of molds, of broken hopes, of ideologies they’d wish to demolish. They’d create a momentary utopia amongst themselves, and watch it disperse in seconds.

There was :

The phenomena- eccentric to a world, that knows nothing of the chaos she could bring to it. Truth perhaps, one, the universe itself wont be able to bear.
The spirit- She’d see that line, that’s placed so far beyond our existence. She’d know of it, touch it, and simply believe. Leaves would speak to her, branches arch their way for her to lean on, and trunks would yearn for an embrace. The heart, of everything, and everyone, lies right there ; inside of her.
The sunshine – Surreal, twirling around life, with that enviable tranquility; it drags you in and makes you wonder “ what is it, I was worried about?”.
The melody- she’d leave a trace of colors behind , everything would simply
float around her; lyrical, whimsical, and light as a drizzle.
The reality - She’d know of those footsteps left behind, of wars and battles, and she’d tell it all. Intact she’d keep everything, past, present, and future.
The mystery - Behind her eyelids, the world lies, with all its miraculous wonders, for she sees it all. She’d crawl into poetry lines, into realms only pages know of; she’d tiptoe on pavements, and whisper to buildings. She’d dance in the rye, and find God there.
The life of them all – She was the equilibrium that held them all together; the norm, falters in front of her, for she was the change it always feared. She’d reach far, she’d reach very far.

Nothing, could be quite as beautiful.

2010-06-11T12:30:00.000-07:00

As kids, we extended our hands to that plastic box of crayons located at the middle of the round table we shared. And we drew that house. Everyone knew of it, for in our small minds, that was it. Triangular rooftop in red. Brown squared front. A rectangular door in the middle, and two squared windows with a cross inside. In Kindergarten, that was home. That was our home, every single one of us.
Now, as I stand here with my graduation gown and university degree, I realize, I can no longer hold a crayon, and home doesn’t fit on paper. Home was embedded and woven so precisely, in those four years I’ve spent in this place. Home is that girl sitting amongst the crowds clapping vigorously for me; pride hanging like an aura around her. Home is that classroom over there, overflowing with ideas, opinions, theories, clashes, and answers that are strung together in my head, offering me an exceptional glimpse into a world only I know of. Home is that professor over there, who with his unyielding passion, showed me that creativity was a necessity not a choice. Amongst everything, Home are those hearts that subtly became one; those friendships that made me believe in the possibility of a ‘beautiful world’; those beings who never flinched, never doubted, never strayed; whether I was intact or in pieces.
For here, I’ve loved too much, and I dreamed, too much. I’ve seen the beauty and the tragedy of human nature with all its shades. Here was the place, where my words became a proof of a once-upon-a-time solid existence; where my ideas were built upon, talked about, and handed over. Here was the place where I felt it all. The gap between 17 and 21, right and wrong, extreme hate to ultimate attachment.
Maybe that’s why I ache now, maybe that’s why it’s hard to step out of the water.

But there’s more out there, so much more. And my greed has no limits nor outlines.
And this home?
It’s permanent as long as I am.

2010-06-07T10:53:00.000-07:00

In her loving memory,

The invisible camera was dangling off her limp neck. She stood there, right in front of them, a shadow of a ghost stealing glimpses of what could’ve been. They were playing charades, impersonating their favorite cartoon characters; and that innocent laughter almost made her lifeless heart beat. How much they’ve grown. No longer crawling, no longer teething, no longer drawing crooked alphabetical shapes on walls, no. They were beautiful, well-grown individuals now. She looked at Fay, who was lying on the carpet, acting out a scene from Sponge Bob Square pants. When she last saw her, she was barely six. A little girl, with glitter on her nails and butterflies tucked in her braids. She was a fragile being, that girl; too afraid, too cautious, with eyes always filled with unshed tears threatening to fall.
But this girl on the carpet is almost 10 years old. Her voice; radiant with confidence. Her laughter; shook the room to its core. Her beautiful eyes glistened with enthusiasm, with joy, with life.
It could’ve taken her breath away, if she wasn’t already: a breathless ghost.
She looked at Mayed,
Standing tall, with a giggling smile, that reminded her of summer days. That boy who knocked on doors before entering; who hid chocolate bars at every corner. She remembered how his pockets were always overflowing with gum wrappers and how his heart contained the world. How he’ve grown, how he became. How articulate were those sentences he uttered, and how poetic was that laugh. Her knees felt weak, and her fingers could almost trace his face.
And then there was Haloka and Mais, or so she used to call them. Huddled in the corner, absorbed in their own version of the game. Their voices, thick with liveliness, trying to fit everything that needed to be said.
She’ve last seen them communicating with singular words; random shreds of childish thoughts. But now, their conversations were sentences, a beginning to an end and an end to a beginning. She broke to pieces at that sight, at the cruelty of life, and how it snatched all this away, or she was the one that had been snatched too soon. She would never be part of this again, they were merely people in somebody else’s story now, not hers, and never will be. All she could do, was raise that mental camera she held onto so tightly, and take a photograph of that beautiful but heart wrenching reality.
CLICK.
And she dissipated into the nothingness she thought she became.
Only she didn’t know, that she was right there, in each and every one of them.

"And if you were with me tonight,
I'd sing to you just one more time.
A song for a heart so big,
god couldn't let it live. "

2010-05-24T13:55:00.000-07:00

“ What’s Utopia to you?” the scholars asked, “ and this world, with it’s astounding flaws and burnt out stars, what would you change in it?”
Where is this place? She wondered, and was it just a dream? For those people she was surrounded with at that moment; were out of this world.
Those scholars were illuminated, with a well of knowledge that was capable of defying gravity, of building civilizations, and tearing them to immaculate pieces. She couldn’t believe that she was in their presence. She couldn’t fathom the fact, that she was actually, taking part in their discussion. They were asking her, about the world. They were questioning her definition of Utopia, not knowing that her Utopia was them. Her Utopia was, that state of mind they possessed; her Utopia was that brilliance they exhaled, that originality in thought, that freedom of expression, and that undenying ability to absorb the sharpest tips of this universe.
“ Utopia would be made up of individuals; bricks that never look the same, never act the same, never think the same,” And yet she thought, those bricks would be able to create something phenomenal, just by achieving that sense of being. Just like you, just like you. she thought
“ And the world? “ they asked
“ Passion, i'd let it drive it. In schools, I’d implant the importance, of liberating the human ability to follow it’s passion, and I’d take society’s stone-set standards, and place them in sand. For nothing, should be solidified.”
She looked them in the eye, and saw realms, territories they’d marked with that profound mind of theirs. She saw history in creation; she was never one to believe in history; but they, she was sure, would be the fundamentals on which everything would be able to stand on. For who else dares to delve deeper into the core of life, rather than tiptoeing on it’s edges? who else chooses to question? To doubt, to ask, to over-judge, to over-think, to over analyze every tiny little atom ,who?
Only those, who were born, to be the pillars of societies, those who scrape off the surface of humanity, and assess what’s underneath. They, were everything, she wanted to be.
“ What interests you?”
“ Television Shows, with protagonists drawn to accumulate everything that’s rarely expressed in reality. Truth. Professionalism. Integrity. Critical thinking in the face of social niceties,”
It wasn’t trivial, she knew, for those interests, had set her apart and gave her a comparative perspective, for she was wise enough to know what to take from them and what to leave.

--------------------
She never knew that,
At that moment, while she was in that room taking part of what she believed to be the most intellectually stimulating discussion she’d had in years,
Somewhere, in that world, a flame had been ignited. For SHE, was the change, it had been waiting for; and SHE was the Utopia it impossibly sought.

2010-04-24T22:31:00.000-07:00

We’d spontaneously decide to have a stroll in the Zoo. That’s how we were, impulsive, irrational, with a tad of insanity. We’d reach the gates of the Zoo and as always we’d mock the city’s inability to create a better establishment, we’d discuss the pathetic state of the walls, and we’d finally compare it with other Zoos that we’ve set foot in during our lifetime. We’d walk in and start with the flamingos. We’d watch them for a few minutes, and then you’d make a comment about the beauty of their feathers. “ They look like watercolor paint” you’d say. I’d remind you that their beauty is supposed to lie in their ability to remain still on one leg, and you’d shrug it off as a “cliche”. We’d walk towards the birdcages, and watch them flutter desperately from corner to corner. You’d make a sad comment about how a bird’s existence depends on its freedom and I’d remind you that you had a parrot at home. We’d then move to the Ghazals, and we’d be stunned into silence for a few seconds, mesmerized by the golden creatures, and then you’d say “ It’s been said that my name holds the meaning of a “ Ghazal””. We’d stop for a snack, sit on the bench, and talk about the future. You’d look me seriously in the eye and ask me if I had decided where my passions lie. I’d know then the purpose of the outing. “ I am indecisive!” id says. And then you’d do what you always do; underestimate yourself at my expense. You’d tell me all about the opportunities you’ve missed; all about the dreams you’ve wanted to attain; and finally you’d tell me that it all lies within me. And then, I’d feel it. You’d make me see it all. The future, I’d own it, and tomorrow, I’d soar.
.....
That’s how I’d imagine it, because that’s what’s really left. Shreds of memories, shreds of imagination, and shreds of the “now” that doesn’t include you. But, I certainly hadn’t soared, and I’m scared. I’m unable to make the right decisions; and all I’m doing is in the realm of “ appropriate”. You used to tell me that I was the one who embraced the word “ crazy”, and that people would envy me for my ability to stump fear.I can hold snakes and tickle spiders; but what about that damn fear that resides within? What about that?! I can’t hold time, and every day I’d tell myself “ Today, I’d be”, I’d find myself at the end of the day with a promise for tomorrow.
It kills.
That’s what I get for flying higher than I am capable of.

2010-04-06T20:51:00.000-07:00

"But then, I'll remember the courage of a child who knows he can't fly. But never stops trying.” Thorsten Kaye

As I look at you, nestled on that couch, trying to show me how the stripes in your school uniform can actually dance if they’re pulled apart. I wonder.
Who will you be in the future? An astronaut, tearing that universe wide open? A vet ,delving deeper in those miraculous anatomies that had always fascinated you? A pilot? An artist? A president? That imagination of yours; that limitless field of creation; where would it go? Would you be that Superhero you’ve always idolized? Its not so hard to envision that,; for you had rescued before. You’ve healed with that magical laughter of yours, and you’ve certainly mended many broken hearts with your out-of-this-world stories.
But then when I asked you, “ What would you like to be, when you’re all grown up?” and you answered with a fierce determination, “ I’d be the largest sticker in the world”, I knew, that no matter who you become, or what tomorrow brings; it’ll all be Extraordinary, because of you. You wont be the author, you’d be the book. Not the violinist, but the music. Not the historian, but the history. You’d be the world’s biggest muse.

2010-03-15T13:22:00.000-07:00

I’d be that girl, sitting on the subway train. A notepad tucked in her pocket with pages as fragile as rain. It’s all she was.
Her purple iPod, her untangled strands of hair, her pale cheeks, dusted with fallen wishes, an eyelash,and an eyelash, and an eyelash. And she was a blur.

2010-02-28T10:48:00.000-08:00

It was right in front of "borders", on that tilted sidewalk at the heart of Singapore. Orchard Road, thats what they called it,We stood there sipping our iced-coffee, tucking the books we bought underneath our arms. And we planned, and we planned, and we planned. You bought stacks of cooking books, foreign languages, a mixture of exotic cuisines, Its funny how permanent that image became now, i can almost see those colored spines you were holding, in their right order, orange, teal, brown.and that creased piece of paper in the middle.
“ you don’t cook” I had said.
“ I can imagine I do,”
Like you imagined piloting those planes in the airport instead of merely stamping passports; like you imagined painting that old house by the corner of the street on a room-wide canvas instead of doodling in a blue-lined notebook; like you imagined circling the Olympics stadium instead of trudging on that treadmill.
Yeah, you mastered that; the art of always being in two places at once, doing what you weren’t destined to do, and skillfully too. And you’d always say “ Just because”
I miss that, the just because.
And I miss you, terribly.

2010-02-23T14:10:00.001-08:00

Story 1
It was about a boy. Green T-shirt. Yellow Shorts.
He had a dream. And it was the moon, nothing else, just the moon. Not astronomy, not outer space, not Pluto, or mars. Just that white glow up there. “Its mine” he’d always say, “ the moon is mine”. But as always in her stories, things ought to be broken; everything, and everyone, was just so fragile. The boy. The moon. The dream.

Story 2
It was about a girl. She saw the future, behind her eyelids. The ghosts of upcoming days, resided with her thoughts. She captured her loved ones, before they fell through the cracks; she was one strong protagonist, that girl. But as always in her stories, things ought to be broken, The girl. The sky. The future.

Story 3
It was about a beggar. Living under an abandoned bridge. He met a stranger, who showed him the wealth of wishing fountains. But the beggar was pained by the wishes dwelling underneath that water, and decided “ no wish should ever be abandoned”. But as always in her stories, things ought to be broken. The beggar. The water. The wishes.

Story 4
It was about two fraternal twins. They waited for the night to come, and sneaked out of their mansion, looking for somewhere to call home. By the end of the night, they found themselves leaning on a lonesome willow, looking at that blanket of stars stretched upon them. And the willow embraced them, “ I’ve been looking too”. But as always in her stories, things ought to broken. The girls. The willow. The stars.

Story 5
It was about her. But as always in her stories, things ought to be broken. The life. The heart. The memory.

2010-02-12T13:42:00.000-08:00

Everyone wondered, why she stacked her walls with those jars. Everywhere, cramped in corners, one over the other; placed so neatly and carefully, as if their well-being was the ultimate priority. Bottom upon lid, and lid upon bottom. But they were empty, and that void inside sparkled as it reflected the billion other voids nearby. Why was she savoring that emptiness? Had she embraced that reality yet, and surrounded her self with it? or had she been consumed by that insanity everyone feared? Only she knew , the untold stories and moments, trapped inside those jars.

2010-02-08T10:18:00.000-08:00

Never-ending distractions. Losing myself in lyrics, and being tucked away underneath; in fictional towns, in pages, in snippets of somebody else’s stories, virtual realities, daydreams, tasks, lullabies, games. Its somewhere outside, and not inside that labyrinth that is my head. I can’t bear reality anymore.“ My reality”. Delusional? I may be. But it hurts less when “I” no longer exist in the equation.
Because there’s no me in those virtual and fictional worlds of others; they’re not mine, and feelings die down. They might exist somewhere,someplace, in a tucked away corner, or another alternate universe perhaps. They might. But not here, not now. Not me.
Otherwise it just hurts. It hurts to think, it hurts to feel. It hurts. So.damn.much.

2010-01-29T22:56:00.000-08:00

A crust from somewhere deep within,

They tell me about your childhood. “Jenni Ramad”, the Ashen monster. That’s what you were called. “ He toyed with the world” they said. Destroyed. Ruined. Caused pain. “As a kid, his life didn’t pause for a second. From the pit of dirt holes,to the back of vegetable trucks, and from wells of cement, to streets of asphalt; his face was never clean, it was always dusted, layered; and nothing could be seen but those dark irises peeking through. His hair had a life of its own; color-drained and sticking out; no matter how often it was washed and combed.”
But then you grew, and that Ashen boy, found new ways of destruction; ones that destroyed what’s within, and turned their way inside out. “ A drug addict? The bottom pit of society, that’s where he resides. At the deep rotten bottom”. And you didn’t care. That permanent smirk you had stuck to your face said it all. You knew so well how much pain you were inflicting upon those who were ready to lift their gazes and turn a blind eye for you. But you, simply, took yourself out of that family portrait, and tore it down to bits and pieces.
I loathed you to no extent. You were the villain.
Until, that day, when the world crashed down on our heads, and you found yourself unable to breathe. That dust which surrounded everything in your life? It had finally cleared out. Leaving you with the bitter reprimands of a guilty conscious., You were consumed then. By loss, by grief, and a love you hadn’t known. But those underneath cannot in any way rise, can they now? You’ve heard them “ the bottom pit of society; they never change”. One couldn’t acquire a new skin. You couldn’t just swallow that past of yours, not with those judgmental stares hovering around you. All; waiting for you to flinch. Your ultimate fall. It was the most spoken theory all around. “ People never change”.
But you tried. And that weakness, which led you to succumb to those desires in the past, had been overshadowed by that strength, that undeniable will power to recreate your soul. And you’re it now. You’re it. In my eyes, you’re it.
They might shrug, with doubt and disbelief, but I know, and you know, that sometimes, it takes a profound wound, to make you see, what it’s like to be loved and what it costs to love someone. The cape is yours now, you’ve earned it.
And I ask God, the one who can give and take all,
to give you the strength and the ability to finally look at yourself in the mirror, and see the man that you are now, and not that Ashen boy; never that ashen boy.

2010-01-16T14:46:00.000-08:00

She was a vision,
a breathtaking dream,
a moment, forever framed in time.
Poetry became weightless, and words were trapped in throats.
Motionless, they all remained, and their eyes, transfixed, mesmerized,
for she was a beauty, one that’s too surreal, to belong to this world.
All she was, All she became, and All she will become, was right there, in that moment, and will forever be.
“Forever and always”, That's friendship, she said.
and I believed her,
Tonight, she was, the forever,
she was the yesterday we folded, and she was the tomorrow we had dreamed of
, and in those eyes, lay infinity,
in those beautiful eyes, lay an endlessness; that surpasses time and space.
She, was, a bride that had never been,
for she had, grabbed reality, twisted it, and tip-toed on a divine dream.

Happy Wedding day S, May your life be filled with carousels, icecream cones, and everything you perceive to be beautiful, for you deserve nothing less.
Tonight, you, were, flawless.

2010-01-01T15:41:00.000-08:00

And there it goes, yet another year.
In between, we wept, and in between, we embraced those surreal dreams. We loved, we grieved, and we became.
And here comes tomorrow,
With an exquisite beauty; wandering clouds, breathing down on us, with their poetic promises.
Here’s to a blissful new year,
May we all find our ways this time around,

2009-12-17T13:43:00.000-08:00

My hands brushed over their worn-out spines swiftly. Their bold titles flashed intensly.With closed eyes, I still know them one by one.

You, you were there when the cadence of time ceased to tick; when air became as thick as lead; when there was nothing more to grasp but that poised rope of prayer. You shielded my teeming mind, numbing all the “ what if’s” and instead, you placed that vivid, vastness of blue ; The Atlantic. Endless, that’s what it was. My eyes saw no borders, no beginnings,and no ends. Nothing but that mystifying vasteness of blue. The wind, and the rays of that raging sun, engulfed me and filled my nostrils with that misty scent of seaweeds, of hunger, of misery. But it wasn’t mine. It belonged to that shadow of a boy, on the wooden raft, in the middle, of nowhere. That ocean, and its catastrophic beauty. You, you gave me that glimpse of a landscape; that glimpse of an abstract; and you whispered. “ There is the universe, there is the earth, there is the deep abyss of the ocean, and then another, and then another, and then there is that boy and his misery; a dot that barely matters. Look outside that head of yours, every once in a while”.

You, you were there when that tiny illustrated plane on the screen seemed permanently paused; when the edges of that seat were bruised from the might of my clutch. You, showered me with snow; soft, feathery flakes that made me wonder if that was the taste of the clouds hovering outside my window. My bones were chilled, and I knew of a winter, that came in July.

You, you were there when those night devils crowned my body; when darkness made me almost heave out of loneliness; when I mourned yesterday’s death and feared tomorrow’s birth. You were there, with that breathtaking garden of secrets; and curiosity gnawed at me. Petals of blooming flowers, daffodils and bluebells, filled my usually tear-drenched pillow. And that sweet perfume of theirs chased the night devils away.

You, you were there when grief swept the grounds beneath me; when those heart muscles of mine were beyond repair; when scents, voices, and faces assaulted every fiber of my being. You tickled me with your oozing sarcasm, with your twisted sense of humor, and that world of nonsense you took me to. And with you, i laughed. Wholeheartedly.

My fingers, traced those spines; one shelf, after the other, trying to get a feel of those lives; a billion of them. A billion of universes, some I was thrown into, others awaiting my arrival, with an easing hand, ready to be placed on that loud, disastrous mind. One day, I tell them, one day, ill conquer you all. One day, ill have a spine of my own, stretching an easing hand to someone else.

2009-12-13T11:11:00.000-08:00

“ I know who stole the mighty sun!” . You whisper in my ears, as you look at me with those eyes of yours. Eyes that miss beauty when it’s gone, eyes that see perfection in the sunken earth, and simplicity in every corner.
“ Who?” I ask, incredulous at such a thought.
“ The dragon!” you say, trying hard to explain. “ the dragon swallowed it for he ran out of fireballs!”. You said, with a voice that came from deep within, where those small miraculous beliefs and dreams of yours reside. My little boy what have you done to me?
“ But what are we going to do now? How are we going to get the sun back?”. I asked, as I watched you immerse deep into your thoughts, looking around for that answer, for to you, the sky cannot be mutilated; no, the sky cannot have a hole where the sun should be.
“ I’ll get it back”. You stood, with determination. And there it was, that sheer beauty in those eyes of yours.
“ But he’s powerful, he has fireballs after all! How would you fight him?” I asked, unable to contain the liveliness your words brought to my fragile heart.
“I’ll fight him with water! I will drink the ocean!”

Little one, everytime, my fingers slip away, there you are, rescuing me, like you rescued the sun.
You and your world of imaginary monsters.
You and your field of dragons.
You and your endless weapons.
You, my little one, you.
I love you much more than my heart could muster.

2009-12-05T08:49:00.000-08:00

We entered the backyard shed we once knew so well, and starred at the bare walls. Stark white. Calling out to both of us.
We both knew what’s underneath that coat of whiteness, and if it was lifted right there, we would’ve found traces of our past selves starring right back at us. “Remember”, we both said at the same time. His hand was placed on a small part of the wall. Mine was on another. I looked at the man in front of me, with a bittersweet smile. “ Look at us. When did this happen? Where is he? That little boy with pricked ears, who believed in the power of charcoal on empty walls? Who swore that his smudged-drawn ghost could really creep out and sneak under our beds at night? Look at you”. He tucked his hands in his pockets, and smiled weakly. I knew that nervous smile so well. That sad mocking smile, which was immediately followed by a joke. “Always knew how to duck, didn’t you?”
As I looked at the now-barren walls, I couldn’t help but see the “Charcoal ghost” with her wavy black hair, and those mocking slit-eyes. I couldn’t help but see the overlapping misspelled words all around her. VIDYEO. DERHAM. CHEKIN. The long misshaped strands of grass, the circular-shaped birds, the set of happy faces, the tic-tac-toe margins, with a million little I WIN scribbled all over them. And then there was the scent. That scent of earth, that scent of soil and water, of sun-stricken grounds, of heat, of twigs and leaves. It seeped through, that scent, it seeped right through that white coat of paint.
He grabbed the brush, and dipped it deep into the black paint. “ Come on, they’re painting over it tomorrow, aren’t you tempted?” he grinned. The ear-pricked boy, there he was.
I grabbed a brush and headed for the other side of the wall. As I glanced back at him, I saw a glimpse of that wavy black hair. “You’re drawing Charcoal ghost!” My eyes remained fixed on him, his tall figure now couldn’t stoop to the height of “ Charcoal ghost”, his back was almost arched, and his drawing wasn’t crooked anymore. It tucked at my heartstrings, took my breath away, and I wanted to weep right there. Something, about that scene, made me realize the fragility of our world, how easily we’ve let it slip through,
I dipped my brush and on my stark white wall, I sang

“Let’s pretend that we can still pretend
Let's pretend that we are young again
All the old alleys have new little warriors
Our ghosts are finally gone
We nodded off and the world moved on”

2009-10-04T12:22:00.000-07:00

With one quick movement, the woman vanished. The wooden door stood ajar, emptiness seeping through, nothing but thin air.
The whole venue erupted in a round of applause. The magician stood there, with his silky black cape, and perfectly shaped hat, waiting for the claps to subside. The little girl, sat, rooted to her chair, waiting, anticipating, silently praying. Her heart fluttered with this newfound hope, and she watched with fascination as he silenced the world with yet another marvelous magical act. That man, that mystical being, with eyes of steel, could tiptoe into minds with such divine grace, could make lights and sounds die away with a flick of a hand, could turn red into blue, could make ribbons dance, that man, surely can do it, he can..

The magician found those eyes of hers, and stopped. The deck of cards lay motionless in his hands, and the wand was merely a wooden stick. He froze. For those eyes of hers, were pleading with such desperation, asking brusquely: do I dare to hope?

Suddenly, he felt exposed, naked, undisguised; he could feel the cape thinning on his back, dissipating, as if he’s in one of his magical acts, only this time, he’s the one vanishing under her unflinching gaze..

She approached him, slowly, one step, leading the other, fear immobilizing her, not of him, but of the truth, what if he doesn’t hold the answer? No, But No! He’s it. He’s the answer, he can do it, I saw him turning that woman into shadows, those shadows into air, that air back to existence, he’s it, he’s it.

“ Tell me” she said. Her voice an eloquent whisper, breaking through the immutable silence. Horrifying, heartbreaking..

“ Tell me,” a vapor hovering amongst the crowds, shattering words, souls handed out..
“ Those hands of yours, can they?, can they make the world, Cancerless?"

The mighty magician, was aghast, for all the illusions tucked under his arms, became weightless, pale, ..Absolutely worthless..

2009-09-19T15:10:00.000-07:00

Astounding,..is the renovation of a soul,

Listen, closely,
You’ll hear it,
Close your eyes, you’ll see it,
Like a mother’s sweet lullaby,
Like the breaking hues of dawn,
A beginning to an end,
A new life, reborn,
It’ll baffle you,
It’ll render you speechless,
In your heart, it’ll whisper:
Believe,
In change,
Believe,
In people,
Believe, just believe,

PS, Im proud of you,

2009-07-29T12:38:00.001-07:00

A tribute to one of the best storytellers I have ever known, One who turned his pain into an eloquent masterpiece: Frank McCourt

Frank McCourt introduced me to a world of misery and great brutality; a world where the lines between survival and cruelty were utterly blurred; where love exceeded fragility and dignity withered in the face of poverty.

His heart-wrenching memoir “ Angela’s Ashes” was a great tribute not only to his mother, whose existence was the pillar of his childhood, but also to the human experience as a whole. It transported me to a different time and space, to the lanes of limerick where Frank’s carton-made shoes soaked wet from rain and dirt, where his bloody scraped knees weren’t as numb as his heart; and where his loss and grief for his dead siblings didn’t even measure up to the moment he saw his beloved mother beg for money, swallowing every bit of dignity if not throwing it away.

He drew them, his family. He drew them out of words and yet, you could find them sitting right next to you, breathing into your neck, sneaking up behind you every now and then. His father, the drunken loser, who despite all his faults and flaws, made you want to weep. His mother, whose grief and sorrow slowly awakened her inner beasts. His brother, Malachy, the free-spirited Malachy, whose jokes concealed a bitter tragedy as black as the soles of his feet.

Frank’s memoir wasn’t his only tribute to the world. His teaching skills were beyond Grammar and punctuations; and beyond any method that had ever been used. He took off his shoes and walked in his student’s instead, saw through their eyes, and thought with their minds. His brutal honesty and black humor, is what kept him going on and on, walking on edges, and hanging on threads, and still landing on solid grounds.

Such an immense loss for the literary world, I wish I could have met the man who made me cry, gasp in disbelief and then laugh out loud, the man who took me away, gave me glimpses, and brought me back a different being. May He rest in Peace.

2009-07-27T11:20:00.001-07:00

That’s his heart, on stage.
His pain, turned inside out, his sorrow, his grief, shattering every soul into existence, every mind into a deathly trance.
Poignant,
leaving no air, no words, no sounds.
Passion meant to be touched, talent to be breathed,

2009-07-24T12:07:00.000-07:00

Such vivid beauty, waiting to be devoured, almost magical, divine, perfect. Green mountains reaching for the blue skies, blending together perfectly as if they were stroked by a brush. Wooden cabins are scattered around, tickling my childhood dreams. Would Heidi step out of that door clutching her milk bucket? And would I catch a glimpse of Huckleberry Finn in one of those trees?
Amidst such beauty, I am a poet, whose words are embedded in red bricks and smoky clouds. I am an artist, with a palette of mountains and meadows.
I am a child, whose spirit cannot be contained. A dancer, a lover, a singer, and a loner whose solace had finally been found.

There he is, the creator, all around, in the scent of greenery, in the crystal shadows, filling my void with a surreal sensation that makes my heart weep.

2009-06-13T13:41:00.000-07:00

The apartment

Walls of black and Red, she would paint them herself. She will choose black because she knew, they thought of it as the color of evil spirits and jinn. But their reasons, were as empty as dusted wells, merely shallow justifications they made to oppose change. They weren’t aware that their hypocrisies lied in their reasoning..Black, is the color of devil, they couldn’t surround themselves with it and yet, yet they wore it proudly, and simply threw the card of “culture” in her face again. The evil spirits suddenly weren’t heard of, for culture was immune. Her walls, were to be black, black as the midnight sky she savored, black as the ink they enjoy to spill.
The window was to be massive, one that could make her touch the peaks underneath, one that would bring in life right to where she stands. One that would make her believe, there’s definitely something higher.
The bookshelves would be stacked with titles, with places her heart knew of but not her eyes, with characters her mind summoned into existence whenever and wherever. With moons and fairies, with churches and fields, with all the alternatives that she drew upon herself once upon a time when she heard “ You can’t”.
The red wall, was to be filled with imprints, of those who once brought her joy, of those who believed she could be, despite everything,

It would’ve been such a beautiful haven. If she hadn’t heard them shatter her being so loudly.

2009-05-21T14:09:00.000-07:00

The world in her hands was fragile. Its lines, became dots, its shell became water. In her hand it melted, in her hands it ceased to exist. She remembers it once, when it was whole..when her finger traced its bold borders, when her eyes saw it all.
But now, all she sees is them, when she blinks, its them, and when she breathes, its them. She chases a dream, a beautiful dream..one that speaks when her words run out, one that listens when her pained heart weeps, one that she could taste in the salt of her tears..it’s always there, and they’re always there..in every corner..to trip her when she’s close, to mock her when she falls, to block her when she gets up again..they’re always there, waiting, to mend her scraped knee, to kiss the pain away, only to bruise the other.
But amidst all that, they never saw..when the dream became her and she became it.

2009-05-10T14:32:00.000-07:00

You gripped the water hose with your little hand. “ It’s raining, It’s raining all over you, all over us, It’s raining!”. You laughed, that joyous contagious laugh, as you showered our world with million little rainbows. You kept circling on yourself, sprinkling the raindrops all around you, until you got dizzy and fell over, laughing hysterically. Your giggles were like a song, snatched from a long forgotten memory, making you look surreal, almost unreal. Like a faded photograph tinted with nostalgia.

You stuffed your mouth with countless pieces of gum, trying to blow the largest strawberry bubble ever made. You promised that it’s going to be larger than the globe itself. Every detail of your face spoke of mischief, you’re eyes twinkled with that new found pleasure. Your grin grew wider and wider as you dissolved into laughter, spitting a huge pink blob onto my face.

You counted the billboards, one after another. One, two,three,four, ninety six, one hundred. You stuck your face to the window, claiming the race between you and them. and then you opened the window, the cold breeze brushing through your hair,as you made the whole world listen to you. One hundred and twenty one, one hundred twenty two..

Ten years,
And you taught me how to live.

2009-04-26T12:02:00.000-07:00

He waited for his canvas to speak. The brush steady between his fingers.
People, he thought he knew them, just with a gentle stroke, he could hold their fragile hearts in his hands.
She waited for his canvas to speak. A portrait..was all she wanted..he could make my eyes laugh, she thought. Perhaps, just a flicker of joy? A pinch of pink around my iris?
Impossible. The colors, wouldn’t mix. The brushes, wouldn’t budge. You’re an artist, coral reefs moved on your canvas, birds with broken wings soared up high, oceans roared and yet, yet..she..you can’t amend?
Paint the hurt away, paint it, the shred that rips a gouge into her heart and pulls her to the bottom of the abyss. It was always dark green wasn’t it? Paint it, that heavy, empty vastness that envelops her every time she tries to close her eyes in the lonely hours of the night. It was always black wasn’t it?

2009-03-24T11:57:00.000-07:00

And I blew the candles.

They soared high ,
a wish, after another, after another.
and those dreams I built once upon a march; flew along, like birds with rainbow wings, like kites made of wooden sticks.
I ask myself, “ That girl who shaped the clouds with her finger, where is she?” when did you lose her?
Was it the day you stepped down from your father’s shoulders? Or was it then and there when you removed those glittery hairpins?

I blew the candles today, and I blew a wish. To find her, once upon a March.

2009-03-22T12:39:00.000-07:00

Everything is still. Nothing moves. Nothing stirs. Nothing breathes. I walk past the couch, past the torn calendar, and past the cards. That’s when they start to creep from every corner, the scent of peaches, the sound of raindrops, the sparks of laughter. And I blink.

You’re there , twirling the phone cord around your finger. Your legs moving unconsciously with every word. Listen, you say.
I blink, and its thin air again.

You’re there then, spreading the deck of cards. Hearts, spades, diamonds, clubs. You’re cheating! You hide the cards behind your back and smile triumphantly. With trembling hands, I lift a card but its thin air again.
You’re there then, flipping the calendar, circling dates with a flowery heart. January, it’s when they wed. February, it’s when I work. March, it’s when she grows. I blink and its thin air again.
June, it’s when she dies.
I tug my necklace unconsciously and smile as I recall the things you wanted to do. We’ll build a snowman, one that never melts. We’ll race a river, one that never ends.

I am there then, my world is surrounded by swirls of light that dripped and overtook my vision, blinding me, bewildering me. I could feel myself falling within my being, the walls caving, the light dimming, the calendar tearing, the cards flying. My heartbeat is erratic, no longer with your words.
Pure agony. My soul is splintering, cracking, dying. And I fall into a state of utter loss.
She was gone.

2009-02-22T12:27:00.000-08:00

My dear friend
Our eyes perceive a world that isn’t ours. That transparent layer fuse with our pupils, making it impossible to see the greenery of the grass. Instead it dissects everything around us into tiny little things and we suddenly become artists who use squares to turn random details into a painting. We never cease to wonder, my friend, why we reach for the clouds when everyone seeks the rain? Why do we erase lines when everyone is drawing shapes? what about the dreams we build every single day? what about that beautiful unreachable universe that is constantly evolving inside us? Will it ever find its way out?
Yes my friend, I think it certainly will. I am tired of tearing the patches by my own hands. The taste of bitterness is poisonous, it metastasize faster than cancer, killing one notion after another. It’s a sickly disease that stand between us and what we might become. We say we’re powerless, stuck in an inverse reality, caged within solid walls. Yet they did it before us my friend. Nizar Qabani’s words penetrated those bricks. They were more powerful than the wind that roared beyond them. .Fairouz’s voice, Abdul Nasir’s resilience, Al-Sadat’s daring act.. if they could escape them, why can’t we my friend, why cant we? Now, the doubt starts to creep into our minds every second, like a ping pong ball, it throws reason after reason, back and forth, of the why instead of the why not. It’s us who decide my dear friend whether to throw back and be hit again, or throw it far away, never to return.
We might as well laugh ,my friend, that kind of laughter that makes our hearts cry. We might as well fall to our knees and weep every time we try to get out, only to find ourselves hitting the hard concrete. No one said they’re transparent. If anything, they’re solider than iron. That’s what you get when you combine those identical minds that knows no distinctness, no individuality, no perception. Like clay, they become one strong “something”.
My friend, or I shall say my dear sister, life taught me that Hope hurts more than a dagger entrenched into flesh, yet it also taught me that the lack of it, blinds your whole world. Slowly everything inside you shuts down and even the memories you once held so dear, starts to seep through your veins. We both know that we are more than a dot, more than a blob, more than a thing, and definitely more stronger together than the wall they created. I can’t do it. But I know that “We” can.

2009-02-12T13:49:00.000-08:00

She walked amidst the crowd rushing through the gates. Today is a new day, a different day. She watched the black mass in front of her dissipate as she made her way to class. Silence usually dominates the corridor in the early hours of morning, broken occasionally by the trill of heels or excited chatter and sometimes by her own loud thoughts. Why does everyone move in a rhythm that is unfamiliar to me, why can’t I grasp their words? and why God why do I always feel out of place?
She opened the door to the classroom and navigated for a second, aware of the frozen stares, she made her way and sat at the back. She didn’t like to sit at the back but she learned to avoid certain situations by taking the easy way out. It’s always better to save my face and sit alone rather than hear the usual “My friend is sitting here” phrase. Though it can be uncomfortable at times, it was much more liberating to her to not know anyone in the class. They can be judgmental; I don’t know them to care. They can disagree with me; I don’t know them to care. They can criticize my beliefs; I don’t know them to care. I can be me; I don’t know them to care.
She listened to the professor speak and every time her mind sought to wander off, his voice grabbed her back in. Passion is what it was. He spoke it. He breathed it. He was it.
The power of his words reached deep into her core and slightly changed something inside her. She realized that maybe for once she shouldn’t cry on spilled milk.

She left the classroom with a positive aura. Why cant I? Why not? She passed through the corridor, and with each step she took, and in each face she met, she found her answers. Because! You’re not him! Because! You’re here and he’s there! Because! In his reality, he never knew a “never”. By the time she reached the elevator, her aura was a dark unyielding cloud.
She sat down and succumbed to her ethereal reality, where the deafening chatters were muted and the recognizable faces were altered. To the reality of her novels where she met characters who, even though intangible, were more profound than the ones around her.
She knew that the minute she would step in, someone would pull her out and drag her into a long insubstantial conversation. Mostly, one-sided.

It was a society within a society. A system within a system. It felt like she was trying to fit herself into a small box that was already fitted into a smaller one; suffocating, overpowering, impossible. Every time her hand would touch a corner, she would try to tear it out and yet end up tearing herself.
But it was an alternate universe after all. She could be independent. Choose. Speak up. Free her winged thoughts. She could even dream within those walls. She could inspire and be inspired. She could be. She could be.

2009-01-25T14:06:00.000-08:00

Emerald green lace; porcelain skin; sparkling lashes ; vivid details..
the twinkle in her eyes sparkled through the dim lights..Fear intertwined with joy. anticipation with anxiety..reality with illusion..everything moved in slow motion..frozen moments in time..trays crashing, heels clicking, lyrics floating..
The serenity of the night was rivaled in beauty by her astonishing entrance..
There she was..
The bouquet of flowers clutched in her hands as white as a newborn's soul. it all seemed to fit perfectly, perfectly for she...
Listening to the cadence of her own heartbeats..
Walking elegantly on the linings of a dream.
Faces clouded her vision and laughter rang through her ears
Always and forever..
Always and forever..
At that moment, everything was right with the world…perfection

2009-01-20T12:11:00.000-08:00

Do you know that every time I listen to the loud clatter of rain outside my window I hear your weeping grave?
Do you know that every day I try to hide behind the normalcy of the world, only to find that it will never be normal again? I seek comfort in the novelty of the now, knowing the solace is just a façade?
Do you know that every time I look at the waves descending to the shore I feel cheated by the scene? By the pretense it holds to be the same with or without you?
Do you know that every time I hold your photograph, I see the malice of reality in your sparkling eyes?
Do you know that every time I listen to your favorite song, it’s your voice I strive to hear, over-shouting my sorrow? And every time I try to find it, the loud music blasts against your urgent pleas?

I close my eyes and pull myself into the past. I attempt to seize your heart with my hand. I feel the providential warmth filling the hollowing space, inducing a peaceful calm into the air that once was musty with death. My surroundings seem to take on different features, reshaping their existence, inverting their previous reality
.. Hope..
I see you..
You are the words on every page I read. You are the lyrics in every song I hear. You are the warmth of every sunny day.. you are .. the wisdom of the old, the laughter of the young, the everything of mine..

2009-01-18T13:27:00.001-08:00

Figments of Ali’s imagination

I crouched on my knees and mustered all the courage to open my eyes and peek at the creature under the couch. I knew the creature behind the bookcase was in its turn peeking on me. I look at the people seated on the couch, oblivious to what resides under it, their eyebrows arching at my unacceptable behavior. My mother refuses to believe a word I say since the creature under the stairs had broke her favorite perfume bottle. I don’t blame her, it’s not her fault that she don’t see it .After all, these creatures materialize only to me.
My parents accepted that their eldest and only son, their pride, the apple of their eye,- had an openly wild imagination and was frightened by what they called the “imaginary monsters”, but they could never accept the fact that my dear creatures were behind the loss of their car keys, the breakage of their sunglasses and the flight of our parrot.
“Ali” my father would say, strictly. “You have to stop this. You’re a big boy now”
Four years. Since I emerged from Mama’s womb and into their world..Four years..big..im a big boy..
My creatures don’t have a physical form until my mind has settled on what it was that they looked like. The creature inside the closet have a very long steel nose made of jeans zippers. ..its eyes- made of shirt buttons- are always sad and sinking down. The creature under the stairs- Mr Indomi- has no definite start or end. A bundle of shoe laces sharp on every tip. Multiple weapons..multiple weapons..
The creature under the kitchen sink is very loud. I never got really close before it started hollering.. BANG BANG BANG..
They evolve too..my creatures..constantly..
I think it, they have it..the power of my mind fuel them..
Recklessness has no place..
Once I thought of razor blades shooting from Mr indomi’s laces..and
There I was, being dragged under the stairs by a bundle of laces, a low growl emitting from its anonymous throat, showering me with razors..
I never thought next to the stairs ever again..

2009-01-10T12:29:00.000-08:00

Izzie stevens..

The day she chose the perfect dress. The day her heart skipped a beat. The day she found him on that hospital bed. cold and pale. What had been a joyous day, full of prom lights and beautiful gowns had turned to a flood of pain, heartache and tears.. One minute he was asking her to be his wife and the next he was white without a single hint of life.
Reality is what it was.
I was in that room once. Another time another universe. Except. Izzie arrived at the end. I missed the end.

I knew that she was drowning. She tried to scream, but no sound emerged from her dry lips.. Only desperate silent cries for help, for release.. Her eyes were blinking rapidly, her tears falling unnoticed..her voice..a whisper. filled with agonizing pain. She was trapped inside her own body. My limbs suddenly became so heavy; my legs betrayed me, not allowing me to reach her. I could only feel her slipping away slowly.

Temperance brennan

The day she exited the courthouse, unable to bring herself to hear her father's verdict. The day she went against her logic and threw doubt on the prosecution’s case, painting herself as the killer. The day she talked to her heart after silencing it for so many years.
Reality is what it was.
Another time another universe.

I knew the truth. It wasn’t any of the words he blabbered. I knew it. I saw it. yet I also knew the comfort of a lie. He looked at me. his eyes pleading, begging me to back him up. It was wrong, wrong,wrong. Yet my heart..my heart..I took the blame
anything not to see him hurt..anything not to see him humiliated..anything not to see that look in his eyes ever again..

Dr Gregory House

The day he sat infront of his only friend. The words ran through his head like a whisper as his fingers slowly worked their way along the worn keys of the piano “ Happy Birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday Happy birthday Happy birthday to you!”. The day he confronted his worse fear and his only ally. Lonliness.
Reality is what it was.
Another time another universe.

A familiar ache started up in my chest, the kind that gradually builds to such desperate longing that I can barely breathe from pain. The loneliness I felt at night ate me up..i reached for my only friend at this time, my diary. My fingers clutched the pencil so tight, jotting down whats left on that worn out piece of paper “ Happy birthday to you Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday Happy birthday Happy birthday to you”.

Phoebe Buffay

The day she found her mother’s soul residing in the cat. The day she tried to convince them that her feelings were real. that her mind was sane..that she’s not giving up on it because they don’t believe. The day she taught them that even if she was wrong, it wouldn’t hurt them to be supportive.
Reality is what it was.
Another time another universe.

I starred at her disbelieving. I couldn’t believe she exploited something personal and used it as a joke. I didn’t tell her because I wanted her to believe me. I didn’t tell her to prove anything. I did it because I wanted her support. I wanted to scream: Even if I am wrong..who cares?who cares? Who cares?..be my friend

Lorelai Gilmore
The day she swallowed her pride and stripped off her dignity. The day she went to her parents for money after years of estrangement. The day she built her career starting from scratch and reached the highest steps of success and accomplishment. The day she chose to break away from the stereotypical ideals of her parent’s upper-class society.
Reality is what it was.
Another time another universe.

I defined my freedom by the smallest choices a person could make. Choices insignificant to some that the lack of them might seem strange.. I chose not to go to a wedding. I chose not to participate in family discussions. I chose not to study finance. I chose. I chose. I chose. It was me who decided. Its significant. Independence here is not independence there. Still it was what I considered a step toward personal freedom in such a place.

They say they’re not educational. They say they’re not influential. They say they’re a waste of time. I say. They’re the most accurate portrayal of real life. The one I know of, the one I don’t and the one I never will. I say star hollows is my town, apartment 20 is my home and the squints are my intellectual colleagues. Everything I lack, everything I want, and everything I am.

2009-01-01T13:56:00.000-08:00

Another year..
The sky cried. Tears of bitterness. Trying hard to wash away the shame. the indignity of the world..the disgrace..
they are the superiors..they posses hearts and brains..unlike other species..they were given compassion..

Fear crawled slowly into their soul..paralyzing their limbs.
Under the table they hid. Behind their locked door, they waited..and when the dawn broke. six feet under, their lifeless bodies laid. The rain hit the shards of their - unlocked door..as if water could erase crimson stains.

Compassion..they were given compassion..
Can a compassionate heart slaughter? Can it blast roofs and then hide behind political obligations? Can it beat after stopping another from doing so? Can it?

They sat on what once was a tree.its branches turned into twigs. Its leaves into dust. Its roots, once standing, lay underneath those black boots. Smashed.dead. not breathing. Their green helmets shielded their heads from harm. Their weapons tucked under their arms. For safety. For power. For defense. For murder.

Humans..They harbour so much hatred towards their own, feeling a sick twist in their gut. Hidden desire to kill,maim, destroy.
werent they the ones who nursed that little bird and mended its broken wing? Werent they the ones who helped strangers collect their fallen things? Werent they the ones who stopped their cars so pedestrians could cross the street? how can they defend their own from pain, and yet cause it?
They seek revenge on those who wrong them, and they protect their loved ones with a brutal ferocity, hunting down those who cause them pain and wreaking vengeance with all their might. Human nature is dark and light, black and white, with infinite shades of grey in between.

2008-12-29T02:38:00.000-08:00

The clock in the waiting room ticked. The rhythmic sound penetrated my eardrums. Tick tick tick tick
Waiting, we’re all waiting
Hoping we’re all hoping
Next to me she sat, close enough, I could almost hear her heart beats..blood pumping into mine..
“when are you leaving?” I dared to ask
“im not going anywhere”
“You’ll have to eventually”
She was silent. Her serenity calmed my raging mind..
tick tick tick
the hand on the clock moved rapidly. Faster..rotating non-stop
seconds,minutes,hours,days,weeks,months,years.
“ its been three years, when are you leaving?”
“ im not going anywhere”
“ I might start to believe”
“Belief is what you need”
she didn’t move.
Not even when the harsh wind swept everything around us. Not even when the hope withered and died like a fallen autumn leaf. Not even when the sky rained thorns on our heads. Not now not ever.
“Never” her voice, not above a whisper.
“if I failed?”
“Impossible”
“ if I fell?”
“ you’ll get up. you are capable”
tick tick tick tick
waiting, we’re all waiting
hoping we’re all hoping
beneath my feet, the ground was solid.
My heart was engulfed with a surreal warmth..comfort..A certain knowledge that one day. ill reach the unattainable..
With her, still by my side

2008-12-26T13:44:00.000-08:00

Tucked in her jacket against the cold breeze, she stepped into the puddle, staggering her feet up and down. She watched the water intently. Pure. Transparent. Beautiful.
She wondered if it was real enough to touch. If she could run her tiny little fingers through it. would it feel as mesmerizing as her innocent eyes perceived? Slowly, she spread her arm. Daring to step closer. She looked around her, at the crowd behind her. Their eyes wide open. Were they as fascinated as she was?
closer closer closer.
.she moved her body along with her arm. She closed her eyes, shutting them tight.
Tickling. Chilling. Numbing.
Giggles escaped her mouth and she grinned widely.
How can she let them know about the pleasure in her heart? How can she make them believe? she ran around still fascinated. At the never ending circle of dancing water..her curiosity was beyond words. The moments she was living were beyond joy..if only the could feel it..if only there was a way she could make them understand that it really can be touched
Sometimes it is that one moment that makes us all see that we have all held onto that inner child, that free spirit that no matter how much we try, we can never be free from.

2008-12-21T11:34:00.000-08:00

Somewhere on the train, she sat. In silence. Looking beyond the lines. To the far heavens above. She listened to the sound of the track. On-going beneath her. Shaking her to the core.
They ask her. why do you believe? Why do you still hold on when everything is falling apart? Why do you see the birds when there are sharks below? People die. In pain. People are hurt. In vain. People are hungry. why do you believe? If God is the most merciful. why do they ache?
She touches the window with her fragile hands, the coldness of the glass makes her shiver. The sound of thunder shook her from her trance.
Its not his wrath. its not his wrath. he’s just quenching the thirst of his earth. The almighty
He’s just answering their prayers. The almighty
How else would they appreciate the beauty of his blue skies if they didn’t see the grey?
How else would they hear him?
How else would they see him?
If not for the rain. If not for the sun .if not for the pain. If not for the details.
How else? How else would they know his mercy if they didn’t feel his wrath?
Do they not feel scared in alleys after the safety of their homes?
Do they not see the morning after the chillness of the night?
She wondered if the train is ever going to stop..if they will ever reach their destination.
She looked around at the faces. At the young at the old. At the healthy at the weary. At the happy at the miserable..
He sees each. he knows each. he holds each. he listen to each. he forgives each..
Each is blind
Is deaf
Is mute
Each only chooses when to see him, hear him, and talk to him.
Each thinks praying is reaching him..Kneeling is finding him.
The truth is. he’s already there. all each have to do is see him,hear him,feel him..

2008-12-05T06:18:00.000-08:00

When I was young, I twirled around the rusty garage pole, gripping it so hard with my hands, refusing to let go. Round and round. I twirled. Waiting for the world to blur in my eyes. And when it did, I stopped abruptly. My black dirty feet rooted to the ground.
Fascinating
The world rotated. Danced. Mutated. And then rotated back and stood still. All in a second.
Brilliant
The power I had. The power I had.

When I was young, I sharpened my pencil every few seconds, escaping the tormenting stares of the math workbook. I stood by the bin and watched the curl become longer and longer. More curls. 4+9=?. More curls. 7-13=?.And more curls. The bell rang. My pencil wasn’t striped anymore. Nothing but a sharpened tip.

When I was young, I stroked the brush on the white canvas. Up and down. Right and left. A dark grey blob was what I painted. I tried the red and then the green. The yellow. The blue. and the blob grew bigger, darker and uglier. It could be a boat. Or a cat. Or a sock. Or it just couldn’t be. All I wanted was a swing.

When I was young, I hid under the kitchen sink and waited. Water dripped onto my eyes but I remained still until I heard my name.
“The game ended you win, come out”I smiled and got up. Yelped as my head crashed into the sink.
bitter victory

When I was young, I poured water into the pot and stirred, watching the bubbles pop and form. I added more ingredients..twigs, pebbles, leaves. And more soil. I stirred and stirred until the brown mixture became softer and smoother. No one held pretence; no one tasted my chocolate mousse.

When I was young, utopia was possible

2008-10-14T12:03:00.000-07:00

She tip toed on the transparent floor. Her white shoes twisting with each elegant bend.
On the rhythm, she swirled.
Her fluorescent light shone brightly. All the color hues in my eyes overlapped, eliminating the invisible
A sudden numbing ache went through my body when I heard her lullaby
I listened with my soul, hypnotized..nostalgic..
Taken back to those days..
When she drew with crayons..smiles on clouds, winks on trees..always blue..never black..
When she raised her voice..to obliterate the sound of Mafasa’s death during Lion king..
. Years later..
Death was mute..
Im submerged in this heavenly delusion..Im lost in the sound, in the air, in the ultraviolet and the white. in the big perfection. I won’t wait for the leaves to fall, hiss and die.
Faith, was enough.
It was enough. Nothing in this world or any other world that exists within it could have surpassed in majesty what I had felt...always and even beyond death.
Around me..still dancing..
Still humming
Still weeping..

2008-10-02T16:36:00.000-07:00

What happened in my life that required my subconscious self to create you? My voice of reason diminished in front of you.
That long torturing school year in the sixth grade?
I rested my head on the table and cried shamelessly. Tears of anger at my pathetic need of acceptance. Tears of bitterness and self loathing. In that darkness I found you. I didn’t question my sanity because anything else was better than reality. Before I could listen to what you were telling me, I heard their muffled laughter. their remarks and cruel mockery. Like wolves feasting on raw meat. Your voice whispered in my ears telling me to talk back, to stop them and end it all. Instead.
I laughed with them.
Self degradation? Disgust? Worthlessness?
It was the desperate need to fit in. To be one of them even if it meant turning into a malicious beast. I was the clown. I was at the other end of the rope. Sometimes the rope itself.
I did things I never thought I was capable of but it was essential to be invited to their parties, to be accepted as a part of the group. Even if that meant burying who I really was in exchange for what they are, and what I deeply didn’t want to be.
Your whispers turned into agonizing screams. I couldn’t handle it. Shut up and let me be! I cant help but wonder what might’ve happened if you did.
You unplugged something inside me. Something that should’ve never been plugged in the first place. It didn’t belong in me..nor anywhere near me. When I left my own body and looked at it again and flinched, I knew somewhere along the road, I strayed.
Then and there I realized that you were my voice of reason. And you saved me. Even when I didn’t deserve to be saved.

2008-09-23T14:45:00.000-07:00

I look into the mirror and I see what I’ve always seen.
why are you here if you think you don’t care?
I gaze down instead, avoiding myself.
She appears behind me and opens my hair. I could sense a conversation initiating..
“ what color is your dress? “
I curse under my breath.
“ why do you want to know?”
“ to use the same glitter color”
“ I don’t want glitter”
“everyone wants glitter”
I close my eyes. If only I could be one of them tonight. lose the sense..lose it all..just be vain...try it. be vain be vain be vain.
My brain is frying under the heat of the hairdryer, in the process of the temporary change
Burning a thought after thought. I try to think of something to diverge the boredom but nothing.. no more thoughts..
-----
I move along to the other task, as if someone is holding me at gun point to do it..yet still.i know that somewhere deep inside me..i am finding this fascinating.
“ would you like to wear colored lenses? “
“ no”
“ how about lashes?”
“no”
“crystals?”
I just have to recollect the ashes of my burned thoughts because the question of the ‘why” is raised again.
beauty is a universal language. They inhale it..and breathe it again..i do the first and choke.
Sweeping the brush on my face
abstract..tick tock
On my eyes..
Main focus..tick tock
On my lips
Contrast..tick tock
I look at the shadow of the “me” in the mirror. No face, merely outlines.
I am pretty.

2008-09-15T04:30:00.000-07:00

Take my hand..follow me..through the walls to the ceiling..why are you scared? We wont fall..logic has no place here. Trust me will you?
Now look around you. do you see it all?
Can you see the rays breaking through the massive windows?
Do you see the sparkling cities beyond?
New York? Paris? Rome? Istanbul? St. George?
Not one but all
Look around you
Can you see the stacks of books? Touch them. Feel them. Live them.
Can you smell the dazzling, fresh, roasted coffee beans?
And that typewriter. click click click. Can you hear the words? the story being written?
Why are you flinching? Afraid of heights are you? Afraid of sudden shocks? Blasting balloons? blinding darkness? Rejection? death?
What about that little girl? That silent little girl? Do you know her? Watch closely
Do you know her?
How about that raging teenager? No?
How about now. Surely you know her now..look at her..can you?
Ofcourse you do

2008-09-04T18:23:00.000-07:00

I feel imprisoned within my own walls. High, strong walls. Built to protect me but instead,locked me in. Voices echo more loudly with each new brick..
Deafening me.
Frustrating me
Poisoning me..
but then they are my own.
Why cant they be released to the universe?
I know they would cause a difference if they could.. but why cant they?
My brain screams as if the thoughts are chained by will..
again ..my own.
Confidence they say.
Or the lack of one..
But. Its the tongue that rejects the command not the mind.
Numbness is its norm
I stand up....an act of self-assurance..they say
it all dissipate when the tongue decides to act.
Senseless..thats what I become..the fault of a society I didn’t choose..
The sin of a culture shoved into my existence against my will.
Powerless..thats what they teach me to be..
“not acceptable”
they draw the line..they cross it but they forbid me to follow..its created to stop me..to erase every sense of individuality that reside in me..its created to push me back violently. to make me fall hard..to make me hurt deep..
to “protect” me they claim.
But broken pieces can’t be protected

2008-09-02T10:35:00.000-07:00

It was beyond her imagination. Her wildest dreams. Beyond any expectation she held true. A moment. Not even a moment. A second...a small portion of the second. That what stood between her, and her dream.
The determination. The difference. The victory. But how?
She jumped into the water with only one thought in her head “ Im going to win.” Full stop.
Her inner beasts were put to sleep. Perhaps for the moment. Perhaps forever.
Nothing mattered.
What she gave up for that moment.
Friendship.
Family.
Time.
and herself
Either gold..or nothing
nothing?
One beast started to awaken, but she hushed it before it contained her.
A little more, a little more
Just a little more.
TOUCH!
Did I win? Did I win? Am I the first? Am I..am I? am i?
No.
By a millisecond, one thousandth of a second
Like a solid roof crashed by thunder..
Her dream shattered. and she broke.

2008-06-18T21:09:00.000-07:00

My box of lives

Sometimes, when everything turns against you, when everyone around you is no longer around you. when you feel suffocated.lost.alone.confused. When you lose the sense of who or what you are..
you go back to that place, where you once hid the folded past, hoping it will never come up again.
Just to prove. You exist.

I opened my box of lives and rummaged through them, trying to find “it”.
The thing is, I don’t know what “ it” is.
Each item is starring at me hoping to be picked, hoping to have a word, or get an answer out of me. Their stares pierce through me. “We make you who you are”.

Item 1 : The dead black rose
Me: what happened to you?
Rose : you happened to me.
Me : when?
Rose: you don’t remember? April 2007. Your university’s majors day
Me : Yes.I do rememeber. You helped me decide.
Rose : Don’t worry, we all make wrong turns.

I picked another.

Item 2: An essay paper
Me : What a lie.
Paper: Everybody lies.
Me : your title. “ My best friend”. It makes me laugh.
Paper : does it?
Me : and cry
Paper : live and learn
Me : Your last line is hilarious.. “ you are not my friend, you are my sister”.
Paper : Things change
Me : Maybe they do. but. True sisters never stray

And another

Item 3: a broken watch
Me : who broke you?
Watch : the person who broke you.
Me: that was four years ago.
Watch : does it matter?
Me : yes. He changed.
Watch : I don’t believe in change.
Me : I do

And another

Item 4 : A card “إلى غاليتي”
Me : the ink you hold is precious. Carved by precious hands.
Silence
Me : I can still hear her words. even if you didn’t speak.
Silence
Me : louder than any silence.

Item 5 : Pink wool bracelet
Me : that sport day. Was a very long day.
Bracelet : why didn’t you take me off ?
Me : you reminded me at that time..
Bracelet : of what?
Me : of the few people. Worth breathing for.

Item 6 : A childhood picture
Me : Once upon a birthday
Picture : A happy Birthday
Me : I didn’t blow the candles
Picture : You had a wish.
Me : I had a fear.

------
The “it” I was looking for was ironically the same “ it” I’ve been hiding from.

2008-05-11T10:32:00.000-07:00

Fragments of somebody else’s memory

Nothing is heard except the loud roars of the sea, slamming into the metal boards in a slow patterned rhythm. The people are peacefully asleep on thin mattresses under their shacks, which are made of bits and pieces. The sound of the roars is piercing through their dreams every now and then. The darkness devours every little life evident there. No insects. No lights. No-thing.
Until the dawn breaks.
They all wake up. The men head to sea while the women sweep around what mustn’t be swept. As they sweep the sand off the ground, the wind brings back another grain of sand.
On that same shore, far away from the women’s chatter, there is a little boy.
The little boy stands on the golden sand; his feet immersed deeply into it, as the water tickle his toes, reviving them back to life.
He is waiting and waiting, Hours pass. And he’s still waiting. The burning sun rose high now. He’s still waiting.
He finally catches a glimpse of the men’s boat returning back to shore. The shadow of his brother hardly seen, yet still visible.
He smiles. And starts calling his brother’s name on top of his lungs, just maybe if he yelled loud enough, he might hear him and come faster.
His brother finally came off the boat, running towards the boy with an excited grin on his face. The brother starts filling him with the events of the morning fishing trip. What kind of fish they got and how the adults allowed him to fish this time.
Of course being two years older, the brother was allowed on the fishing trips, while the little boy was only allowed to enjoy them through the brother’s tales.
They walk back together. One chattering and the other intently listening.
The brother has an idea. He drags the little boy to a place a bit far from the shore where many pieces of metallic boards lay. They sat down on the sand and the brother grabbed one of the metallic boards. He then grabbed a large rock and started thrashing the board sides with it until it turned into an unmistakable twist. He continued hammering the rock on the sides of the board, making it look like a large pot. The little boy watches, unblinking, afraid to miss anything. When he was done, the brother turned to the little boy with a huge smile on his face, pointing to his creation.
And then he said “let’s go fishing, in your new boat”
The little boy couldn’t believe his eyes. He got up immediately and rounded the boat over and over again. Checking every little side of it, making sure that it was really a “boat”.
The brother started to push the boat toward the water and the little boy, overwhelmed with excitement, followed.
His happiness was beyond the brother expectations.
As soon as the brother pushed the boat into the water, the little boy hopped on.
The metallic boat slowly started to drown, as the little boy tried to balance on it.
The little boy fell into the water and the boat, freed from the boy’s weight, floated back to the surface. The little boy got out of the water, laughing his heart out at what just happened.
The brother, seeing the little boy’s reaction, laughed too.
They kept laughing as they retreated back to their shacks, wet yet happy and content.

The 9-years old boy is now, a 51 years old father, whose memory of that day is still vivid as yesterday.